Hell hath no fury
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Sherlock and John are being watched. Someone is paying particularly close attention now that they're in a shiny new relationship. That someone might look a little like Moriarty. And if it's not Moriarty, then who is it? A bomb, an illness (of course), the ups and downs of love, and a case. Some humour/romance/hurt/comfort/non graphic slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock and John are being watched. Someone is paying particularly close attention now that they're in a shiny new relationship. That someone might look a little like Moriarty. And if it's not Moriarty, then who is it?**

**A bomb, an illness (of course), the ups and downs of love, and a case.**

**This story follows on from my Getting Better fic, and will be in that style and with that tone. I hope you enjoy it. Pip xxx**

* * *

Chapter 1

'_John._'

It was the merest murmur, but John woke up anyway. He smiled and waited, and as he expected, Sherlock rolled and flopped one arm over John's body. He sighed once, and then his breathing settled back down to its low, steady rhythm.

John had been woken in a similar way every morning for three days. He didn't mind. In fact, he was overjoyed by it.

For the four days prior to that, Sherlock had been working on a case and hadn't come to bed at all. John had continued to sleep in Sherlock's bed, but he was feeling more and more disconcerted as he did so.

The problem was; the experiment - the experiment of _them_ - was now ten weeks old. There had been no lengthy discussions of terms or expectations beyond the initial; 'as long as you (John) are ill, and need taking care of, and as long as I (Sherlock) feel the oppressive need to check on your wellness at every turn, we shall sleep together'. It's true that this had developed quite quickly into sleeping together with additional kissing, hugging, closeness, and where appropriate, _sex_, but none of the specific terms were spoken of out loud again.

Until the case a week ago, both of them had happily continued in this pattern without choosing to discuss or clarify with each other.

Things had cooled a little from those first early, intense weeks, and John had noticed that though cuddles, kissing and sex were still readily available at night, Sherlock had retreated a little during the day. John, being not only a gentleman, but also a gentleman who was very much in love with Sherlock Holmes, had not pushed or pressed the issue. He was aware that Sherlock's mind was ticking over all the possibilities that their relationship held, and that any move Sherlock wanted to make at any time needed to go through rigorous examinations in his mind before he'd commit to it. That was Sherlock's comfort zone, and John wasn't about to do anything that forced him out of it.

It was true that John might dress a little more interestingly, or move a little more suggestively, or talk a little more intriguingly than he had before, but that was all. On these occasions he might note Sherlock Holmes staring at him, frozen, uncertain, mildly confused and with a look of faint desperation on his face, but John wouldn't take advantage of that moment. He'd just wait. Generally, Sherlock would quietly abolish any specific emotion and return to his daily activities until bedtime, whereupon he'd pretty much pounce on John to tear his clothes from him before pushing him into the bed.

John was more or less happy with this. It was true that their relationship had become slightly routine, and he fretted that this might turn into a rut of the less good kind, but he wasn't concerned enough to push Sherlock anywhere that he might not want to go.

The problem was, during the four days of no bedtime there was therefore no relationship at all.

On top of this, the case had really highlighted to him that he was physically better from his long illness. He wasn't quite up to full weight and strength, but he was certainly getting there. Most dietary problems had been resolved now, and he could eat pretty much whatever he wanted without getting into difficulties. Unless you counted Christmas Dinner, when John had stuffed himself silly with each of the twenty different dishes and sides that had been cooked up between him and Mrs Hudson. It _might_ be true that if you counted that event, there had been one period of 'digestive discomfort' according to John, and 'eruptions that measured on the Richter scale' according to Sherlock.

But Christmas dinner didn't count. It never counts. Christmas dinner is officially off the chart of any diet, budget, shopping projection or whatever.

Plus John had felt better immediately after he'd removed the excess. So much better that he started on Christmas supper less than two hours later, much to a certain detective's horror.

And Christmas aside, John was basically well again. He'd even started running in the mornings (also to a certain detective's horror) in order to build up his muscle mass and general fitness.

So, from John's point of view, according to the terms set out in their embarkation of the sleeping together experiment, there really was no need for him to be in Sherlock's bed any more.

And Sherlock… well, John wasn't sure if Sherlock had noticed, though he recognised it was a high probability, but he hadn't asked John how he was for at least two weeks.

The clingy concern he had developed during John's illness had dropped away, and Sherlock no longer needed verbal confirmation from John that he was feeling OK. He just knew that he was, and John was once again trusted to get around by himself, and help on the case, and chase down a forger with a gun without Sherlock being thrust into overwhelming panic mode.

So arguably, from Sherlock's point of view, there really was no need for John to be in his bed at all.

So over the four days, John had carried his weary body to Sherlock's room to have whatever amount of sleep he could squeeze in before being woken and propelled to the next location of mystery, and each time he had felt an increasing sense of; _this might not be the appropriate bed for me to be in anymore._ He was always able to shake it off. Sherlock clearly didn't care. In John's mind, he heard Sherlock's voice clearly telling him that if he felt the (stupid) need to go to sleep, then why should he care where he chose to (stupidly) do it. As long as it wasn't directly in Sherlock's way, he could sleep wherever he damn well pleased. So John had gone to Sherlock's bed, each time hoping that he might wake up next to a lanky, curly-headed genius. He was disappointed each time.

When the case was over, John felt the need to tentatively, very tentatively raise the issue with Sherlock. So very tentatively that Sherlock might miss it perhaps.

Late in the evening, even while Lestrade was still interrogating his newly received forger, and while Sherlock was sitting, legs stretched towards the dying fire, chin on fingertips, mentally filing all of the recent events, John had cleared his throat.

'Do you want me to sleep in my old room?' he asked quietly. Very quietly.

Sherlock's head had bounced up; 'nodon… whyshould… bidiculous.' He caught up with his mouth and flushed slightly. He didn't repeat himself or clarify further.

''K then,' John had replied, and he'd gone to bed with a wide smile on his face, safe in the certain and happy knowledge that someone was watching his arse as it retreated along the hallway.

Sherlock had finished the mental filing before John had removed his trousers, which was a happy situation for all concerned.

It remained a confusing relationship for John. The initial premise was long over, and clearly both of them were clearly avoiding the subject for fear that the other would say something they didn't want to hear. Expectations were still unclear; Sherlock's expectations of John, John's expectations of Sherlock and Sherlock's expectations of himself. The way they were with each other wasn't always completely natural and easy.

It was early days, John would tell himself as he faced yet another effective dismissal from Sherlock. But at ten weeks, this was already among the three longest relationships John had ever managed to maintain. On the other hand, it was embryonic days when you considered Sherlock's move into relationships at all. So John would just have to wait until things settled. Still.

But, and this was a sanity saving 'but' as far as John was concerned, on the days that Sherlock did sleep with John, every morning, he would mumble a sleepy _'John_' and would move and settle close to or on top of the good doctor, and then he'd continue sleeping.

John was relatively certain that Sherlock wasn't awake, and he had made the delightful discovery that in that time, in the half hour or so between the first short murmur and him stretching and waking, Sherlock would quite happily answer any question John might pose to him. He was also relatively certain that Sherlock had no memory of the discussions they might have when he woke up. It was like John had discovered a doorway that led directly into Sherlock's subconscious and all logic, posturing, manipulation and deceptions were stripped away. It was half an hour or thereabouts, where John could actually find out first-hand what Sherlock was _feeling_.

He was fairly careful with his questions. Particularly as one; 'what do you think you might be prepared to eat today?' had got John into a spot of trouble. He'd served Sherlock a fishfinger and mayonnaise sandwich on white bread, and Sherlock had looked at him shrewdly, clearly wondering how John could possibly have known.

John had taken his innocent look up a notch or two, and Sherlock had let it pass.

Since then, he'd asked more general questions.

'What's your favourite season?' _'Winter.'_

'When was your first kiss?' _'Ten weeks ago.'_

'Who was your first crush?' _'John.'_

'Which bits of my body do you find most attractive?' _'Backside. Back. Neck. Chin. Eyes. That face you pull. Fingers. Backside. Arse. Bum.'_

'Did you like that thing I did? The other night, when you were just out the bath?' _Oh God, yessss.'_

'Do you want me to be with you now, in your bed?' _'Yes. Always. Always yes.'_

'Do you know for sure that I love you? For sure?' _'Yes John. Yes.'_

John didn't ask more than one or two question at a time for fear of waking Sherlock and being rumbled, but he used the answers to soothe his nerves when Sherlock became a touch dismissive during the day.

He knew it probably wasn't the healthiest way to hold a relationship, but he wasn't yet prepared to rock any boats.

It wasn't every day. Only the days when John was feeling slightly nervous or a little playful. On other days, he'd just let Sherlock snuggle and watch him sleep while thinking of the nature of his life and the rest of the world, because some days that was enough.

Today, that was enough. John looked at where Sherlock had pressed his face against the side of his, John's, arm. Sherlock's arm was extended over John's chest, and John took the opportunity to stroke the fine hairs on it.

He tensed as there was a sudden sound. The downstairs door was unlocked and flung open, and someone, a male someone, John guessed, clattered upstairs at full pelt. The footsteps carried on down the hall and suddenly Sherlock's bedroom door was flung open. Lestrade appeared holding onto it, panting for breath.

'Oh! God!' he said. He looked mildly surprised, but didn't back out of the room.

'Er, Sherlock,' John said. He shifted and nudged Sherlock slightly.

Sherlock's breathing stopped, and his hand tightened around a handful of John's t-shirt as if to prevent him from moving. The eye that was visible past John's arm opened and glared a dagger into Lestrade's soul.

'What are you doing in my room?' he asked steadily.

John just looked at him.

'We have news,' Lestrade said. 'It's urgent. Mycroft's in the hall.'

A throat was cleared pointedly from the hallway. Sherlock's eyes closed tight. He didn't release John's t-shirt.

'Let's be grateful for small mercies,' John said quietly to him. 'At least Mycroft isn't in the bedroom.' He gave Lestrade a look, and Lestrade coloured.

'Two minutes,' Sherlock said. 'Living room.'

Lestrade nodded and backed out, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock didn't move, so John shuffled down the bed so that their faces were level. He risked kissing Sherlock softly. 'They wouldn't have come if it wasn't urgent.'

Sherlock didn't answer or move. He didn't seem to mind the kiss though, so John planted another one. 'Come on. If we're going to get up, let's get up.'

'No. Sod them,' Sherlock whispered. 'Let's stay here.'

John grinned. 'No. Come on. Up.'

Despite Sherlock's hold on him, John managed to extract himself from the bed. Sherlock groaned slightly but did get out the other side, letting the sheets fall away to reveal his nakedness. He stood and stretched, and John thought a couple of very improper thoughts before grabbing his dressing gown and going through to the bathroom.

By the time he got through to the kitchen, Sherlock had thankfully found both pajamas and dressing gown, and he was pacing in front up and down the living room. He hadn't started ranting yet, but John could recognise the signs that he was building up a nice head of steam. He stopped to turn the kettle on, thinking that some mornings weren't possible without a cup of tea.

As soon as John set foot in the living room, Sherlock started.

'We've been over this and over it, Mycroft! Anything that happens between John and I is absolutely none of your business! As for you, Lestrade, moving past the astounding position where you think it's acceptable to walk into our bedroom, know this; if anyone at Scotland Yard utters _anything_ to John which causes him the slightest level of discomfort about… about whomever he chooses to share a bed with, then I'll hold you personally responsible and I'll…' Sherlock paced, furiously, apparently not able to think of a punishment worthy of the situation.

'Understood,' Lestrade muttered, looking slightly confused.

'Wait a sec,' John said. Sherlock stopped pacing to look at him. 'Are you under the impression that Lestrade didn't know about, well, the me and you thing until he walked into the bedroom just now?'

Sherlock looked between them both.

'Greg knew, Sherlock. He's known for weeks. Sorry. I didn't think you'd mind.'

'I just forgot, so was a bit taken aback just now. That's all. Sorry.'

Sherlock frowned at John. 'You told him?'

'Yeah, at Christmas drinks at the Yard.'

'And Molly had told me beforehand.'

'You told Molly?' Sherlock asked.

John smiled. 'No, _you_ told Molly, remember?'

Sherlock looked positively baffled.

'Look,' Lestrade said, 'all of that aside, my force know that I truck no nonsense with homophobia at all, under any circumstances. They know there's no excuse. If there are any comments, suggestions, sniggers, anything, then let me know and the person involved will be dealt with. End of.'

'Gentlemen, if we might perhaps get on,' Mycroft said.

'Yeah, what do you want?' John asked. He went to finish making the tea.

'Moriarty,' Lestrade said.

'Moriarty?' Sherlock asked.

'He died last June, didn't he?' John called.

'Well yeah,' Lestrade said. 'That's the thing.'


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

'Moriarty is dead,' Sherlock said.

'Yes,' Lestrade agreed. 'We certainly thought… _think_ that but…'

'Moriarty is dead!' Sherlock repeated. 'I saw skull and grey matter float away in a pool of blood. That man is dead!'

'Yes,' Lestrade said again.

'He's dead,' Sherlock said again.

Even from the kitchen John could see the muscles in his neck tighten and his fists balled at his side. He abandoned the tea and strode through to stand with Sherlock. He placed a hand very gently on his back.

'What have you got for us?' he asked Lestrade.

'Well, up until last night, what we had were these.' He opened a tatty cardboard folder and spread the contents onto the table. For the most part the papers therein were photographs, usually of Sherlock, occasionally of Sherlock and John together. There was one from recent weeks of the two of them holding hands outside a small restaurant in Soho. Sherlock was looking at John, relaxed and smiling. They were all date stamped and in order, and they told a strange story of Sherlock's life since his return to London. Among the photographs were short notes typed in a large font. They were the usual trite nonsense of 'I'm watching,' and 'I'm coming to get you,' though one simply marked 'I O U' gave Sherlock pause. The most recent one, dated the day of the holding hands photo, was marked 'Oh dearie me.'

Sherlock glanced at John who just shrugged.

'So? Someone's watching us, or watching Sherlock at any rate. So what? You don't think there's a problem or you would have told us before.'

'What's changed?' Sherlock asked.

'This,' Mycroft said. He pushed forward a black file with a neatly typed label in the corner stating Y1752. 'This came from a server that was mentioned on the memory stick that John was able to take from Simon Able.' Mycroft nodded deferentially in John's direction, which would have made John snigger if the situation hadn't been so tense. 'It took until yesterday for my people to find the server and break into it. I didn't wait to ask them to decipher it too.'

Sherlock took the folder and opened it, and John leaned over his shoulder to look. There was a page of typed letters, clearly encrypted, and grouped into separate paragraphs which had been annotated by someone. They'd used a red pen to mark numbers, which looked like IP addresses, and they'd been marked with the time and dates, and initials; JM, SA and SM were marked beside some of them. There were others marked ?1 and ?2. Sherlock picked up the first sheet for closer examination, and he handed the file to John. There was another similar sheet underneath, and he moved it to reveal several more.

'There are eight pages in total,' Mycroft said quietly.

John picked up the second sheet to examine it. He didn't bother with the text; he knew well enough that he wouldn't have the ability to break any codes. Instead he looked through the notes.

'A conversation,' he said. 'Messages sent to the group and replies.'

'Clearly,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock remained silent, and John went back to the paper.

'Wait,' John said. 'Whoever marked this person as JM is wrong. Moriarty died in June, and some of these are from September.'

'Yes,' Mycroft replied.

John looked again and flicked through several more of the papers. 'But it's the same code as before June? Is that what you're saying? He's corresponding both sides of June.'

'Yes,' Mycroft said again.

'Moriarty is dead,' Sherlock said.

John looked at the sheets again and then up at Sherlock. 'Could he have been hacked? Whatever system he was using to type these messages, could his account have been hacked.'

'I thought that,' Lestrade said. His eyes flickered over to where Mycroft was sitting like a statue, watching Sherlock. 'But, well, we thought it unlikely that Moriarty would be hackable.'

Sherlock put the sheets back into the black folder and closed it.

'Leave it here with me,' he muttered.

'Understood,' Mycroft said.

'Yours too,' Sherlock said to Lestrade.

'But it's evidence, Sherlock. I only made one copy.'

'More fool you. Leave it here.'

'Look,' Lestrade said, starting up, 'if there is anything starting up and if Moriarty is involved, then I want the…'

'Moriarty is dead!' Sherlock roared. He pushed himself up from the table knocking his chair to the floor and stormed down the hallway into his room, slamming the door behind him.

John breathed out and turned back to the other two. 'Well, thank you for coming,' he said with a bright smile. 'And thank you for bringing these matters to our attention. Eventually.'

'John, mate, the pictures and threats weren't anything much without Mycroft's input, and his people only worked that out last night.'

'I apologise for our tardiness,' Mycroft said.

'Yeah, well, if you could leave this all to us, we'll get back to you later.'

Mycroft and Lestrade looked at John, and he was relieved that neither of them asked him to elaborate on what he would get back to them about. He swept the pictures and letters into Lestrade's folder and put it on top of the black one. He didn't look up from the table, and after a fairly uncomfortable silence, the other two took their leave. He breathed out when he heard them go downstairs and turned to look at Sherlock's door.

After a moment, he walked down the corridor and went into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was standing at the end of the bed, stroking his lips. He didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular, but his eyes flickered to John as he came in.

'So, that's interesting, yes?' John said.

Sherlock didn't answer, there was a look on his face that suggested indecision though, and as far as John was concerned, indecision from Sherlock could only mean one thing.

'No,' he said. 'Don't even think of suggesting that we should cool things, or I should go away somewhere to visit a long lost relative in Barbados. No, I won't do it, not for this reason anyhow. I've always been a target through association with you, and we both accept that…'

'I don't accept that.'

'Well do you accept this; each time that you've chosen to go away or back off or whatever, I've _still_ been in danger, and so have you, and we're less able to deal with it than we should be. We're stronger together. Both of us are.'

There was a slight hesitation, but then Sherlock nodded. 'All right. I accept that.'

'Good.' John deflated slightly, and he walked up to Sherlock and wove their fingers together. 'Well if you have no other reason for wanting to leave me, I suggest we pretend that this never came up as a subject.'

Sherlock looked at their entwined hands and nodded slightly.

'Good,' John said. 'Now, what shall we do today? Do you want to go over those files, see if you can work anything out with them?'

Sherlock considered. 'No. Not at the moment anyway. They don't yet know we've got them, so let's not draw attention by reacting in any way at all. Let's just continue exactly as we have been.'

John nodded. 'OK. I can deal with that.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Though we haven't got anything specific planned.'

'I think I'm owed a half hour in bed.'

'But we're already up.'

'Yes, we are.' John reached to kiss Sherlock slowly and gently. 'But I should have had a half hour awake in bed with you, and I missed it. So I say I'm owed. You owe me.'

'Technically Lestrade and Mycroft owe you.'

'I don't want half an hour with them.' He kissed Sherlock again.

Usually, at this point in the proceedings, John would wait and see, and usually Sherlock would fight to maintain self-control. On this occasion, however, John felt he had been sufficiently shaken to push things just gently. He kissed Sherlock again and he slipped his free hand up beneath Sherlock's t-shirt and stroked the small of his back. Sherlock shuddered and kissed back more forcefully. John smiled and released Sherlock's hand so that he could make better use of it elsewhere.

Sherlock's hands went up into John's hair, and he held his head still so that he could desperately attack his lips. John scratched down Sherlock's back and the attack intensified. Eventually Sherlock stopped. He still held John's head though, and their foreheads rested together.

'I'm so glad I didn't have to leave you,' Sherlock breathed.

'You never have to unless you want to,' John replied. 'That's the thing you need to pay attention to. Everyone else's input is irrelevant.'

'OK.'

'Now do you want to come back to bed with me? I know it's not the right time, but we live in a topsy-turvy mixed up world where sometimes it's OK for you to go back to bed with your boyfriend at nine thirty in the morning.'

Sherlock smiled. 'OK.'

oOo

John went out for his morning run slightly later than usual that morning. He particularly enjoyed the tired feeling in his legs as he padded around the paths in Regent's Park.

When he got back home Sherlock had removed himself from the bed and had showered and dressed. John was not surprised to find him sitting on the sofa with the pictures and notes from Lestrade's file.

'Didn't take you long to stop ignoring it then,' John said with a smile.

'Mm.' Sherlock stared at the pictures with a faint frown on his face.

John rolled his eyes and went to shower. He went through to Sherlock's room to dress and tidy up a bit, and when he got back into the front room he found the furniture had been pushed back so that all the papers and letters could be spread out in date order. The coded papers had been cut into chunks and put on top of photographs corresponding to the same dates, and in between the piles where there weren't any other papers to go with them. Sherlock was standing on the coffee table looking down at all of this from above with his hands joined and resting against his lips.

John sighed and shook his head. 'I'm making a cup of tea,' he called. 'Do you want one?'

'Mm.'

John went to the kitchen, but then immediately left it to go back to Sherlock.

'Look, I'm very happy that you've got something to think about, and there might be a new case on and it's important and all of that, but do you think that this time you could perhaps occasionally acknowledge me with something beyond 'John, get over here!' while you're working.'

Sherlock stared at him, aghast.

'I'm not saying all the time,' John said. 'I don't want to unreasonably demand masses of your time. Just perhaps maybe once in forty-eight hours or so, if you could, I don't know, just look at me in that way, or say something… _nice.'_ He stopped and shrugged. 'Sorry. I know that sounds a bit pathetic, but I'm human over here, and sometimes I just need to know that you remember me.'

He turned and went to fill the kettle. Behind him Sherlock got down from the coffee table and followed him to the kitchen. John waited for some sort of question or even just a statement, but there was silence. He sighed and turned back to Sherlock who was watching him and clearly processing lots of things very fast, but coming up with no answers at all. Sherlock's 'brain-freeze' look, as John knew it.

'Well?' he said, raising an eyebrow at the genius.

'What sort of act or statement might be acceptable for this purpose?' Sherlock asked.

John sagged. 'I don't know. Just _something._'

'Well _I_ don't know!' Sherlock said, distraught. 'I know nothing about romance, John. Nothing at all.'

'I'm not talking about romance…'

'Well, what are you talking about then?'

John thought. 'Well maybe I am talking about romance, but I don't mean chocolates or flowers or grand statements or anything.'

'No, I didn't think you did, but I couldn't work out what else might be right.'

'No.' John chewed thoughtfully on his thumbnail. 'OK,' he said eventually. 'Watch and learn.' He strode to Sherlock, took hold of the back of his neck and pulled him into a fairly brief but fairly intense kiss. He pulled away and nodded. 'That would be acceptable. Or variations.'

Sherlock stared. He turned to look out of the window briefly, and then looked back at John. 'OK, I think I might be able to make that work, _if_ you could stop being quite so suggestive between times.'

'Suggestive?'

'Yes.'

'I'm not doing anything deliberately.'

'Really? I think you might be.'

'OK, well a bit.' John smiled. 'Fine, so I'll try not to be quite so alluring if you acknowledge me as your partner every now and again.'

'One passionate kiss every forty-eight hours.'

'You don't have to time it, Sherlock.'

'But you said…'

'OK, so you do have to time it. Fine. Just don't act as though you've forgotten I exist all the time.'

'But I'd never forget you exist!' Sherlock said, horrified by the suggestion. 'I love you! I'm relatively sure of it, and even if I don't you're certainly undeletable! I tried, remember, for all those months away!'

'OK, all right.' John rubbed his face. 'Let's just get on with the day. Let me make this tea and then you can show me your collage.'

Sherlock nodded, still looking slightly unnerved, and went back to his papers. John joined him a moment later and handed him a mug.

'So, there's always at least one message on the days when there's a photo or note then.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Is this the sort of thing that you'd leave me over?' He asked. 'It seems like the sort of thing that another partner might manage better.'

'No, Sherlock,' John said. He rubbed Sherlock's back to soothe him. 'This is not the sort of thing I'd leave you over. It's just that I found my enjoyment of our last case was tempered by my wishing we weren't on it so you'd come and shag me for a while instead. It's not that much of a big deal though, and I'm beginning to wish I'd never mentioned it.'

'No, I'm glad you did,' Sherlock said softly. He still looked nervously thoughtful though.

'So, are these dates when the photos were taken or when they were delivered to the police?'

'Both. They were sent pretty promptly. Some of the messages on the server were sent before on the same day, and some afterwards.'

'Right.' John squatted down so that he could look at them. There were sometimes two or three messages together from various different people. The SA and SM initials had disappeared quite early on, at around the times, John realised, that they had been incarcerated. The other initials went on though, JM with ?1 and ?2.

'It'd be very nice if we at least had a name or an initial,' he said. 'Some idea of what we were dealing with, however vague that might be.'

'Mm,' Sherlock said. 'I think it might be wise to not think of these as people though, rather than accounts. The JM account goes on even after Moriarty himself died, which leads me to believe that the account was open to be used by other people. Or at least one other person.'

'But the Able and Moran accounts were only used by the men themselves.'

'Perhaps. Or perhaps there was an understanding that they wouldn't be used while the men were in prison, whereas the JM account was always understood to be open.'

'So it could be used by any number of people?'

'Yes. As could the other two anonymous accounts.'

'But what would be the point of having accounts at all?'

'I don't know. Maybe it relates to a role or a location rather than a place. I'll know more when I've been able to decipher some of the code.'

John nodded. He pulled the photograph of them holding hands towards him. There were far more messages on that day. Apparently the photograph had caused a flurry of conversation between the network. He looked at the expression on Sherlock's face in the photograph and wondered how he'd ever doubted Sherlock's feelings for him. He felt the gentle touch of Sherlock's hand in his hair, and he looked up.

'John, I understand why you say that I've never been able to protect you, and I know that we're stronger together. I still hate myself for exposing you in the way that I have.'

John took hold of the hand and pulled himself up.

'I don't,' he said fiercely. 'I don't hate you for that _at all_. Don't.' He shook his head.

Sherlock reached out to gently hold John's collar. He looked uncertain and troubled again.

John smiled. 'Just so you know, this would be an excellent opportunity for you to use that passionate kiss thing.'

Sherlock's face flickered into a smile. 'But it clearly hasn't been forty-eight hours yet.' He kissed John anyway.

John was just beginning to think that he could start quite enjoying the cases more if he knew there'd be making up for lost time afterwards, when Sherlock's phone beeped with a text.

They broke apart.

'No, it can wait,' Sherlock said.

It beeped again. 'No,' John said. 'It'll drive me crazy not knowing.'

It was already ringing by the time he reached it and he answered to Lestrade.

'Sherlock? There's trouble. Bad trouble. Will you come?'

'It's John. Where do you want us?'

'Westfield Shepherd's Bush.'

'Damn it, Hammersmith and City's up the spout today.'

'John!'

'OK, we're coming. Keep your hair on.' He hung up the phone and turned to Sherlock. 'We're going shopping.'


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock held John's hand in the taxi. It was in part because he just liked the feel of John's hand in his, but it was also because John's suggestion that Sherlock was inattentive had shocked him slightly. He wasn't _surprised_. Not in the least. He had no reason to believe he had any aptitude in this area. On the other hand, he hadn't previously had so much riding on him not ignoring someone. So the hand would be held, firmly and gently until they reached the shopping centre, and Sherlock would try to remember to make some comment or look too, just in case.

They arrived and pulled into the long taxi rank. The shopping centre was exactly of the type that Sherlock loathed; too big by several factors and full of people. There was so much concrete and glass, and everything seemed overly sterile and difficult to find. He noted sign posts and directions posted everywhere, helpful smiling waitresses at cafes, gleaming water features and black, glistening granite. And people, _everywhere._

'Call Lestrade and ask him precisely where we're supposed to be.'

John took his phone out to oblige, and, far too late, Sherlock wondered if he could have inserted the word 'please' into that instruction. He glanced at John who seemed fine, talking and repeating directions down the phone. In fact, if anything, John looked a little younger and a little happier than he usually did. The people and the black granite didn't bother him. His eye roved as they finally made it through the passage of restaurants and into the centre proper, and he took in the delights of expensive jewellery and custom-made leather goods and well-tailored suits. It occurred to Sherlock that perhaps John quite liked shopping. Perhaps that was why he was always short of cash.

'We're in the middle section,' John said. 'This way and up one.'

He guided Sherlock with a comfortable hand placed on the middle of his back. They walked past shop after shop, and Sherlock wondered why they needed so many different ones selling wares that were all just a slight variation on each other.

And thousands of people. Lots of them young, in their late teens and early twenties, walking in groups while laughing and texting. Families too, sitting and drinking in various cafes or lounge areas that seemed to spring up from nowhere. He noticed a child of about three happily driving along in a pedal car, and his eyes widened.

'Here,' John said, taking his arm and pulling him off to a wider section. There was a crowd standing at the edge of it, and a couple of security guards trying to persuade them to stay back with varying levels of success. John and Sherlock pushed through. There was a call after them, but as Lestrade called out and headed towards them they were left alone.

This area was huge; easily big enough for a tennis court or possibly two, and it seemed bigger without people in it. There was a car on a stand in the middle next to a sign offering a free prize draw, but whatever promotional workers had been with it had been moved from the area. There were still leaflets about the insurance company leading the giveaway lying on a table and several on the floor.

Lestrade pointed up at the windows in the shops in the mezzanine above.

Sherlock looked.

'GET SHERLOCK' was emblazoned in lights across several shops.

He turned and the letters 'I O U' blared out across the opposite side.

John had stopped too, and was looking up at the writing, agape.

Lestrade hurried over. He was tailed by a man in the suit who was looking both annoyed and self-important, and a uniformed police officer.

'Yeah,' Lestrade called. 'Nobody knows how they got like that. The electrician has tried to override the circuit to turn them off but it's not happening. Apparently they're talking to the original installation people now, but they can't work it out either.'

'How long have they been like this?' John asked.

'It was noted by a shopper about an hour ago.'

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade. He was clearly agitated, but Sherlock guessed that was in part due to the repetition of the 'Get Sherlock' message which was bound to make him jumpy by association. He was aware he didn't understand the 'I O U' one at this time.

John did, and he was looking angry, but in a calm and competent way. Sherlock noted that he quite liked the soldier aspect of John, and he'd be sure to tell him that when he needed to remind John that he cared.

He filed this away and went back to looking at the lights in the windows. The how and the how long questions were largely irrelevant; their purpose was to summon Sherlock to this spot. But why?

Behind him he could hear Lestrade complaining to John that the complex manager didn't think the situation was dire enough to close down. The man in the suit was spluttering and protesting and pointing out that they'd at least cleared that wing. Sherlock roughly calculated that an hour of closure time in a place like that would cost the economy hundreds of thousands. He looked around again.

To this spot? Or a spot close by perhaps. What was he missing? He glanced around, trying to find areas where a body might be stashed but he couldn't see anything. He strolled further away and looked around, at the lights again, at the messages.

Sherlock heard Lestrade uttering an apology to John about his bedroom invasion that morning, and he tuned them out. Social aspects of their relationship were most definitely John's area. He paced again and turned and looked slowly. Something niggled at the edge of his consciousness. There was a store selling bath and toiletry products with a display backed by a large smiley poster. Two shops down were t-shirts hanging with a similar design. The shop next door sold music, and a large display showing cover art of a building explosion took pride of place in the window. Next down from that was a coffee shop with a smiley face on a 'pick me up' poster, the next had a smiley face, the next an explosion. He turned slowly around and scanned. All the shops but one or two had either a smiley face or an explosion somewhere in the displays their windows.

'You need to get everyone out,' he said, charging to Lestrade. 'Everybody out, now!'

'The immediate area's been cleared!' the suit said.

'All of it. Get everyone out of the area, and not down into the underground station. Get the whole place evacuated, right now.'

John nodded, and he went with the police officer to try to get the security staff moving. The suit nodded with a grimace and started talking into his radio. A moment later evacuation bells rang out. The noise level went up again as people started hurrying away and shouting for their friends, and asking where they were supposed to go.

Sherlock looked around again. He was towards the far end of the area now. There were large glass doors, through which he could see people hurrying by with all the usual expressions of interest and concern. He turned back and looked at the posters again, trying to map out some code in their order and placement but there was nothing there.

'Sherlock, should we get out?' John asked, coming towards him.

He shook his head and looked around again. He became aware that every security camera in the place was fixed on him. He frowned and started walking back into the middle, looking again at the posters to check that there was no indication that the explosion would be elsewhere, and he hadn't just sent several thousand people to their deaths.

John looked on, watching Sherlock gaze around and around. Every instinct screamed that they needed to get out now.

'Sherlock!' he said again, without really intending to utter it.

He knew he wouldn't leave without the detective.

He desperately wanted to get the hell out though.

Lestrade was at his shoulder. 'John, we need to leave…'

'I know. Sherlock!'

'In a minute!'

Sherlock strode on, back towards the middle of the area, still scanning, still turning around and around. John followed, some twenty paces behind, and Lestrade did too, just slightly further back.

'Shit.' Sherlock stopped, and started to turn, but it was too late.

The car blew up.

The driver's door was flung wide and it hit Sherlock in the chest, and that and the force sent him flying back through the air.

That was all that John saw before he too was flung back by the blast. He tried to ball up but was caught off balance. A sharp pain ran through his temple where something hit it, and his head bounced once on the floor, and then he came to a rest, knees held close to his chest, on his side, on the floor.

The noise was hideous.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus but pain and smoke and tears got in the way. He squeezed them tight shut and forced his palms up and onto them. His body was telling him to stay down and stay small.

His brain was overriding it with the message; 'get Sherlock, get Sherlock, get Sherlock…'


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

John heaved himself up onto all fours, trying to get some air into his chest. The smoke was already clearing, but he could feel the heat from the fire. He picked his head up. From that position he looked around at the chaos around them. Beyond the burning car, he could see people running and panicking. Someone slipped and fell and three people trampled over them before someone stopped to help. There were people running towards them too now. Security guards, all looking hopelessly young and terrified.

He took a steadying breath, glanced at Lestrade to be sure he was moving. All of this was the work of a second before he pushed himself up and ran, bent double and shielding his face from the heat of the blaze towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was very still, lying face up on the shiny floor tiles. His eyes were closed, and there was a rapidly forming pool of blood beginning to beneath his head. Even with all his medical training, John felt the urge to shake some life into him. He crushed it and swiftly checked for breathing and then quickly ran his hands over Sherlock's torso. He was fairly sure there was a fracture to Sherlock's left collarbone, but from first assessments there was only that and the head wound to deal with. The world spun with relief as he thought what a lucky sod Sherlock Holmes could be at times.

The bomb must have been a relatively small one, he concluded. Glancing around, he could see damage to some of the shop windows, but it was nothing like as bad as it could have been.

Lestrade was suddenly at his shoulder too, talking on the phone, requesting an ambulance. John shook his head to try to relieve the ringing and started to investigate Sherlock's head.

'Here,' someone uttered, and a green, plastic first aid box was pushed into John's hand.

John looked up at the security guard there and nodded his thanks.

He went through it quickly and found some dresses to wad up against Sherlock's skull. He also took the opportunity to secure Sherlock's left sleeve to his collar, holding his arm vaguely steady.

'… yeah, only two casualties in this section from the first assessment; one minor, up and moving, the other unconscious…'

John looked up again at Lestrade, trying to work out what he'd missed. Lestrade caught him looking and gently reached forward to touch John's temple. John winced at the touch, but just nodded at the blooded fingers Lestrade was holding up. He was moving, thinking, breathing; he would do for now.

Back to Sherlock whose eyes thankfully flickered into life. He instantly started breathing rapidly in either fear or pain.

'No, settle down, Sherlock. You're OK, I've got you.'

Sherlock continued panicking and tried to get up. John carefully held the good shoulder down and smiled into Sherlock's face. 'No, don't get up. Stay where you are a second.'

Sherlock's eyes stared back, confused and terrified.

'You're OK,' John said again.

Sherlock's eyes were blank. Unrecognising. John squashed his fear and added another pad to the sodden mess he was holding to Sherlock's head. He let go as Sherlock shuddered and flailed, and he rolled him very carefully onto his good shoulder so that Sherlock could vomit a thin stream of liquid onto the polished floor. John quietly rolled him back, and Sherlock stiffened and thrashed again, this time his eyes rolled back into his head and violent, shuddering jerks ripped through his body.

Lestrade swore. His face was pale and horrified as he watched what was happening. He was holding his phone uselessly in his hand.

John looked at his watch. 'They on their way?' he asked.

'Yeah. Five minutes. They've got a whole thing to manage, but we're the only major casualties reported…'

John looked back to Sherlock after hearing the time and blocked everything else out. He glanced at his watch and tried to hold the pad to Sherlock's head as carefully as he could. Eventually the tremors stopped, and John glanced at his watch again. Sherlock's eyes opened again and he stared upwards at the ceiling. John leaned over him again and touched his cheek. Sherlock's eyes glanced over him, but his face retained the look of faint confusion.

John uttered a faint, internal prayer, and, as if in answer, he heard whistles blowing, and three paramedics in lurid, day-glow jackets were suddenly tearing towards him.

He leant over Sherlock again. 'OK, the ambulance is here. You're going to be OK. Right?'

Sherlock didn't answer. His face remained blank.

John stayed in position until the paramedics got close, when he allowed himself to sit back and quiver slightly. He mechanically gave details of the event and the seizure while the paramedics listened, nodded and took notes of Sherlock's vital signs.

Sherlock suddenly stiffened again, and tried to sit up. 'John!'

'I'm here, Sherlock.'

John batted away Lestrade who was trying to hold a bandage to his head.

'John!'

'Here, Sherlock. I'm not hurt.'

Sherlock was silent again, but John felt the silence was ominous. John squashed the panic.

'Hold still,' Lestrade muttered at him.

John was about to protest, but the look of concern on Lestrade's face silenced him. He stayed as still as he could while Lestrade worked clumsily with shaking hands and a frown on his face.

'Do you want me to take over?' one of the ambulance crew asked.

'No, sort Sherlock first,' John replied.

'He's in hand. Is one of you John?'

'Yes.'

'You might as well come with us. Let me do that,' he took the bandage from Lestrade who sat back to watch Sherlock being carried on a stretcher towards the exit while security guards tried to get the last stragglers of workers and shoppers out of the way.

'They'll wait for you', the paramedic told John. 'If not, there are three other vans here.'

'Many hurt?'

'A couple, but I haven't heard of anything worse than evacuation strains and a fair amount of panic.' He looked at the burning husk of the car as firefighters rushed towards it. 'Shit though,' he said softly before remembering himself and turning back to John with a look of calm professionalism.

John nodded. 'Good. Let's not make them wait too long. I'm fine, and I want to go with Sherlock.'

'You've got a nice lump there. One sec though…' He taped down some padding. 'OK, you're good to go now. Can you walk?'

'Course I can walk.'

He pushed himself up and the ground swayed under his feet. He suddenly panicked about structural damage, but then he realised that the swaying was actually coming from him. The paramedic took one arm, and Lestrade the other, and he was grateful for it as the ambulance had been parked what suddenly felt like seven miles away.

He sat in one of the drop-down chairs opposite from Sherlock's stretcher, and he let the ambulance crew fuss with his bandage again. The driver slammed the door behind them, and Sherlock's paramedic asked Sherlock for his name, address and phone number.

'John!' Sherlock started up again. 'John!'

'I'm here, Sherlock.'

The ambulance lurched into life, and John briefly had to hold on to his chair.

'John!'

'Here Sherlock.'

'John! Where's…' Sherlock broke off as he retched again, and the paramedic helped him. 'John!' he said as soon as it was over. 'John.'

'OK,' John said, and he pushed gently past the ambulance crew, who let him past. He leant over Sherlock, using one hand to steady himself against the side of the van. 'It's OK,' he said. 'I'm here, it's fine. Can you just try to answer the questions, OK?'

Sherlock's eyes remained distressed. He didn't take them off John though, and he seemed to recognise him now.

'Your name, address and phone number,' John said. 'Come on now, let's give these folks a show of the beautiful genius brain of yours.'

Sherlock shook his head slightly. He reached his good hand up to John who took it and gently squeezed it.

'Altered?' the paramedic asked quietly.

'No, I don't think so,' John answered, wondering if he'd actually fall down with relief. 'I think he's deaf.'

The paramedic's face cleared and he looked back at Sherlock. 'Can you hear?' he asked, cupping his hand to his ear to demonstrate.

There was a slight shake of Sherlock's head, very tiny, as if he didn't want to commit to the problem.

The ambulance wailed around a corner, and John had to grab at a shelf to prevent from falling.

'You need to sit down now,' John's ambulance crew said. 'Let me finish with that head.'

John sat compliantly and watched as his pulse was taken and a blood oxygen monitor was placed on his finger. It took him until they'd nearly reached Hammersmith hospital for it to dawn on him that he was a patient too. He summoned his last reserves of energy to shake himself out of that role. By the time they'd got to the checking in desk at St Mary's Emergency department, he was firmly on the medical side of the doctor/patient divide. His head was ignored, and he was allowed to stay with Sherlock as he was first put into an emergency bay to be poked and prodded, stitched and x-rayed. His arm was strapped up across his chest in a sling, and he was then deemed worthy of a bed in the observation ward on the second floor.

John followed him up to a little ward of seven beds. Sherlock was put into one of them, flanked by two beds to his left, and one to his right, and the porters nodded briefly at John and left. John pulled the curtains right around Sherlock's bed and sank tiredly into the visitor's chair. He looked at Sherlock's sleeping body. He'd been given a fairly weighty amount of painkillers, and he currently seemed calm and settled.

John sat down on the thankfully padded visitor's chair and closed his eyes. He opened them briefly to check the time, and was surprised to find it was nearly three. He wondered about going to find lunch, but his head throbbed, and his stomach lurched so he closed his eyes again.

His respite was short lived. Mycroft twitched the curtains aside and stepped into the cubicle.

'I came as soon as I was informed,' he said.

John stared blankly wondering who had done the informing, and whether Mycroft was attempting to make the accusation that John hadn't.

'What is his condition?' Mycroft asked.

'Broken clavicle, fairly bad concussion, and he's deaf.'

Mycroft glanced at him. 'Permanently?'

'We don't know yet. Hopefully it's just a reaction to the blast though. We'll know more later, and I'll let you know.'

Mycroft straightened and turned to him. 'Of course I'll arrange to have him moved to a private facility as soon as possible.'

John tensed but he nodded. 'Well let me know when that's arranged, and I'll prepare him for moving.' He looked steadily at Sherlock.

'You're not going to argue?' Mycroft asked.

'No. Sherlock and I have been… whatever we've been for less than three months. You're his brother and his next of kin, so you get to make the calls as long as he can't.' He still didn't look away from Sherlock.

There was a pause.

'What would you recommend, John?' Mycroft asked quietly.

John sighed. 'I'd recommend that you leave him here for now. When he's more with it, he'll start to demand his own home almost immediately, and I'll get him back there as quickly as is safe for him. Any move in between now and then will be stressful and slightly pointless.'

There was a curt nod. 'Understood.'

'I take it you're…' John stopped as there was a change in Sherlock. He was suddenly stiff again, and then started thrashing with spasms. John was up and at his side quickly, and he reached across to the nurses call button. Other than that he just stood quietly and calmly by Sherlock's bed trying to prevent him causing further damage to his shoulder.

'Can't you do something?' Mycroft snapped.

'Not yet.'

It seemed like hours, though John knew that it was only minutes in reality, before the tremors died away again and Sherlock lay still and limp.

'Did someone call for a nurse?' A voice called from the large of the ward.

'Yes! In here!' John called. A fresh-faced young man came into the cubicle. 'Another seizure. Lasted under two minutes. Hey up.' John rolled Sherlock again and calmly caught a flow of vomit in a cardboard bowl. In his lightheaded state he vaguely wondered when Sherlock had actually consumed as much as he'd managed to throw up. He dismissed the thought as quite irrelevant.

The nurse took the bowl away and returned quickly. John guided Sherlock back again. His eyes were open, but they were staring blankly up to the ceiling.

'Mr Holmes?' the nurse said. 'Sherlock? Can you here me?' There was no response. 'I'll get a neurology consult in a bit. I'll stay with him for now though.'

'There's no need,' John said. 'I'm a doctor; I can handle this. I'd be grateful for the neurologist though.'

The nurse nodded. 'Let me know when it ends so I can chart it.' He left.

John looked up at Mycroft who was watching everything with a look of undisguised horror on his face.

'We'll see any neurologist you want to ask, Mycroft,' John said quietly.

'Who would you recommend?'

'Surely your people will find someone for you?'

'I think I'd rather ask you.'

John nodded. 'Look, this particular state is likely to be short lived. The last time he was out of it within quarter of an hour. You can stay if you want, but I'm fine to take care of him from here.'

Mycroft lingered, but then nodded.

'I'll send you updates as often as I can,' John said.

'Yes. Thank you.'

John was left alone with Sherlock again. The nurse popped back several times but Sherlock was still confused. It took twenty minutes for him to surface again.

'John?' he murmured.

John was on his feet instantly. 'You OK there?' he asked, before remembering Sherlock couldn't hear, so it was a bit pointless.

'Are you OK?' Sherlock murmured. 'Did you get hurt?'

'Well, you're the one in the bed, so what do you deduce?' John asked.

Sherlock frowned and reached his hand up to gently touch the bandage on John's head. John caught the hand and held it gently.

'I'm fine,' he mouthed. He kissed the hand and smiled. 'I'm fine.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I can't hear,' he said.

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

'It's not that… there's a loud noise. I can't hear me talking, and I can't hear you. I can just hear… noise.'

'OK, well let's not worry about it for a while.'

'It's a noise. It's like bells. Buzzing bells. It's noisy.'

John smiled and stroked Sherlock's forehead. 'Go to sleep.'

'I can hear this noise. Buzzing. Ringing.'

John smiled tiredly and nodded. He poured Sherlock a glass of water from the table at the end of the bed, and held the straw steady so that Sherlock could take a couple of sips from it.

'I think the ringing is louder in my left ear,' Sherlock said. 'It sounds like… like an old fashioned fire alarm. That sort of bell.'

'Go to sleep now.' John stroked his hand down Sherlock's face, forcing him to close his eyes.

Sherlock seemed to get the message. He kept his eyes closed and before long his breathing turned steady and shallow and the hand holding John's turned limp.

He sat down again and wondered which of the nurses he might be able to get some paracetamol from.

A few minutes later he had to stand up again to gently lift Sherlock so that he could throw up the water. John made him drink some more anyway.

He was interrupted again after half an hour when the nurse reappeared to check up on Sherlock's condition and to get times and details from John. He was not forthcoming with paracetamol.

Forty-five minutes after that, Sherlock woke up with the news that the ringing was getting a little fainter now, and he could hear some sounds above it.

John was, of course, relieved, but this was followed by an hour of Sherlock describing precisely what he could hear in great detail. He also described his nausea ('like seasickness, John, the sort of seasickness that goes with a heavy swell. It's not like food poisoning...') and pain ('It's that loud sort of pain. That sort where you can' t look away from it. It's not sharp, or burning, or stinging. It's that sort of pain that just seems to take up the whole world') just by way of variety. John was thankful when the medicine trolley arrived and Sherlock was dosed sufficiently to sleep again.

It was after five when a harried neurologist finally found her way down to Sherlock. Sherlock was sound asleep, but she was happy to discuss briefly with John, and agreed that a scan was necessary but warned that it would have to wait until the following day. John nodded and thanked her, and then managed to close his eyes, while keeping half an ear open, for about half an hour. Then another nurse appeared to ask what Sherlock would like to eat for dinner. After some consideration John did wake Sherlock to give him his options, and Sherlock returned the favour with a barrage of obscenities. John left briefly to find a vending machine with lemonade in it, and he insisted Sherlock drank a little of that. Sherlock did so, and then brought it all up again, so John gave up and sat down miserably. He drank the rest of the lemonade.

Sherlock started to describe what he could hear again.

John waited until nearly ten for Sherlock to be dosed again. When his breathing had slackened again, growing calm and quiet, John crept out of the ward and went home.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John crept back onto the little seven-bed room at just after six-thirty in the morning. He'd had to behave in a slightly underhand fashion to get access at that time in the morning, but he was there now. He paused on entering and stared at the seven identical sets of hospital issue curtains and realised he wasn't precisely certain which set Sherlock was behind.

He was quite surprised when he found him first time.

Sherlock was lying back on the bed, very still and pale with his eyes closed. The blanket had been changed overnight which concerned John slightly, but the man himself, in his hospital gown and his bright blue hospital sling, looked exactly the same as he had when John had left.

John put his bag down on the floor and sat down.

'Where did you go?' Sherlock said, without opening his eyes.

John stood back up again so that he could talk quietly and not disturb the other people in the room. 'Your hearing's back then. I went home for a rest.'

'The ringing is still there,' Sherlock replied. 'I can hear above it now.'

'That's good. How was your night?'

'You weren't here.'

'No. How were you?'

'Sick and in pain.'

'OK, well rest up now.' John sat down.

'You weren't here,' Sherlock said again. He opened his eyes to glare with steely, dark grey eyes. There was quite a lot of both hurt and anger in the look.

John sighed and stood up again. 'I'm here now. Is there anything you need?'

'Not now. Nurses were on hand to help. Eventually.'

'I'm sorry,' John said.

He reached to take Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock twitched it away from him and turned away, sneering slightly. John was quite shocked. His immediate instinct was to snap back, and possibly storm out, but he squashed this as unhelpful. Instead he perched on the bed and leaned over Sherlock again so that he could lip-read where necessary.

'Look, it was very late, and I was very tired, and I had had something of a bad day myself yesterday. I'd been quite shaken in the explosion, not to mention deeply concerned about you, and my head throbbing to the point where passing out was becoming a bit of a danger, and where would we be then? I know that my injuries are insignificant in comparison to yours, but I needed to go home to take some pain relief and sleep for a few hours, just so that I could be in a fit enough state to take care of you today. So that's what I did, OK? I left you in a comfortable state and surrounded with medical staff, and I'm back here now and ready to leap to your every command.'

He waited. Sherlock's lower lip had been jutting out throughout this speech, but eventually he settled back on the pillow to look at John with something approaching remorse.

'Are you feeling a bit better now?' he asked, glancing over the fresh bandage over John's temple. 'Are you concussed?'

'No. Just a bit dazed and a ringing headache.' He smiled. 'Mrs Hudson is a saint, by the way. Well done for finding a landlady who isn't phased by a shaking, wobbling army doctor turning up on at her flat door late at night. I couldn't even tell her what had happened in a coherent fashion until she got up at 5:30 to cook me some breakfast.'

'She is a saint. I'm glad she looked after you.'

'Yep. Well, I'm well enough now, and I've got a wealth of painkillers with me for if I'm not again at any point. Now how about you? How bad is the pain?'

'It's mostly just dull and throbbing as long as they give me my meds nice and promptly. Can I go home yet?'

John smiled. 'I'm glad you asked. Not because I have an answer, but because some of my diagnosis of your state is based on how badly you want to come home.'

'I'm really uncomfortable here though. You should still assume I'm very badly injured and need maximum care. Especially if you're all better now.' He smiled hopefully at John.

'I know.' John stroked a hand into Sherlock's hair. 'I don't know how much more comfortable you'll be at home though. You got properly knocked about.'

'So will they let me out this morning?'

John smiled sympathetically. 'I don't know. I'm hopeful that when Doctor Lazenby has finally gets the brain scan sorted, she'll let you out shortly after that.'

This earned a frown. 'Brain scan? Why do I need a brain scan? I've been concussed countless times before and they just watch me for a while and then let me go.'

'Yes,' John said slowly. 'The trouble is, since this last concussion you've had two grande mal seizures, and I'd like… well, Doctor Lazenby would like to just have a look and see what's going on there. I promise I haven't asked for it through my own nosiness.'

This was met by silence.

The strip lighting above all the beds were suddenly turned on, and there was the sound of someone making their way around the beds to check on the occupants.

'That's the night over then,' John said.

'Big bad,' Sherlock said.

'Say what?'

'Grande mal. It's French. It means big bad.'

'Yeah, well doctors seem to think that 'big bad seizures' doesn't sound quite the thing when discussing them with patients.'

'But it's fine for the French?'

John thought about this. He stroked his hand through Sherlock's hair again. 'OK, well, you've had two badass seizures since you took the knock yesterday, and Doctor Lazenby would quite like to check your brain.'

Sherlock smiled faintly. It was only a brief smile though before he put his head back on his pillow and grimaced. 'I feel sick again.'

John resumed the head stroking. 'OK. Just lie still and quiet for a bit now.'

'I threw up on the blanket in the night. I didn't even work it out until the nurses started changing it.'

This alarmed John slightly, but he guessed that Sherlock was concerned with something other than more evidence of confusion. 'It's OK. They'll have seen worse. Just lie still and take some deep breaths.'

'I see all the years in medical school weren't wasted on you then.'

'Calm deep breaths, Sherlock.'

Sherlock did finally lie still. He took several deep breaths, and John sat there with his hand in his hair, gently stroking, beginning to look forward to the time when he could take him home and look after him himself.

The nurse doing the morning rounds popped in through the curtains and stopped shortly when she saw John.

'Oh. I wasn't aware that visiting hours had started early today.'

John stood up and smiled. 'Sorry. I just wanted to pop in to see my partner briefly before I start my own rounds today. Doctor Watson; I work in emergency and trauma surgery.' He held a hand out. 'Nice to meet you nurse…?'

'Cartwright. But it's just Fiona really.'

'Nice to meet you.' They shook hands. 'How was Sherlock last night? I know he can make a bit of work for the night staff.'

'Oh he was quiet as a lamb. Honestly, no problems at all.'

John worked quite hard to keep his incredulous frown from his face. 'Good. So no more seizures then?'

'Seizures? No I don't think so.' She frowned and looked at Sherlock's notes which clearly weren't enlightening. 'Oh I see he had one yesterday. Well no, nothing today. It says Dr Lazenby wants to see him just in case though. It's probably just a precaution though.'

'Yeah, thanks,' John said.

'Right, what do you want for breakfast, Mr Holmes?'

'Nothing. Silence.'

John smiled again. 'Don't worry; I'll sort something out for him later.'

'Fair enough.'

She left them alone, and John watched her go, shaking his head slightly.

'I bet you wished you'd stayed now,' Sherlock said. He was smiling slightly now though.

'OK, I wish I'd stayed,' John agreed. 'But I couldn't, and wishing won't change that, so we'd best get on with it. Now, breakfast…'

'No, John!'

'No, I agree. I'm not sure when your scan will be, and I'd prefer you had fasted for it. You do need to get some water in you though. And as soon as the scan is done, we'll be working on getting something slightly more substantial than that.'

'Fine,' Sherlock closed his eyes. 'But not now.'

'No, not now.' John started digging for his book in the rucksack.

'You could kiss me, you know,' Sherlock said. John looked up, surprised. 'I'm just saying.'

'OK.'

'Before you get off to your morning rounds.'

John smiled. 'OK.'

It was quite a brief kiss as these things go, but Sherlock had a small smile on his face as he tried to go back to sleep.

John whiled the morning away reading his book and occasionally listening to further descriptions of the ringing that Sherlock could hear. He was quite pleased when the porter arrived just before eleven to take Sherlock up a floor to Doctor Lazenby for the scan.

Sherlock was less pleased, not least because he needed to be moved into a wheelchair for transportation.

'You're all right,' John told him. 'You can manage.'

'I can't manage,' Sherlock whined.

'You can. I'll be there throughout, OK?' John took almost all of Sherlock's weight as he got out of bed, and for a second the doctor wondered if they'd both go crashing to the floor as a result. He lowered Sherlock as gently as he could, which was apparently not quite gently enough for Sherlock who briefly turned a little grey. John resolved to make slightly more of an effort with the upper body training at the gym.

He followed Sherlock along the corridor and into the lift.

'You'll be with me?' Sherlock asked.

'I might not be allowed in the room. We'll see.'

The lift lurched into life and Sherlock turned pale again. John put a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it.

'Do you need a bowl?'

Sherlock shook his head, for which John was grateful as he'd forgotten to bring one.

They went along another corridor and round a corner, Sherlock keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and hanging onto his chair for dear life. Finally he was pushed into a small room with head scanner and a trolley already for Sherlock with paper spread from end to end.

'Mr Holmes,' Doctor Lazenby said, smiling. 'Are we all ready?'

'No.'

'He's fine,' John said. 'Come on now, Sherlock; let's get this over with.'

'Are you sure this is strictly necessary?'

'Yes.'

'It probably is for the best, Mr Holmes,' Dr Lazenby said. 'Plus I've booked the session now.'

'Oh, well if you've booked the _session_.' Sherlock said.

'He'll be fine,' John said. 'Come on, Sherlock. Up you come.'

John guided Sherlock up, though the detective did seem happier to take some of his own weight which relieved John's mind slightly. He got him onto the trolley and helped him to lie down. Sherlock looked nervous and uncomfortable.

'Now, Mr Holmes, this will only take ten minutes or so, but it is critical that you keep your head very still or we'll have to start again. We have an elastic strap we can put over your forehead. You'd be able to break out of it if you needed to, but it helps some people keep still. Would you like it or would you prefer to go without?'

'Without.'

'Are you sure you can manage, Sherlock?' John asked.

'Yes.'

'OK.' John patted Sherlock's hand and stood back.

'There will be a technician in here with him,' Dr Lazenby said. 'I take it you'd like to be in the viewing room with me?'

'That would be my preference if I can't be in here.'

'You'll be in the way here. Come with me.'

John followed Dr Lazenby into an even smaller room with several monitors and keyboards. There was also a small window so they could see through into the scanning room. John watched the technician push the trolley into place so that Sherlock's head and shoulders were comfortably in the machine.

'John!' Sherlock shouted.

'There's a microphone there if you want to use it,' Doctor Lazenby said, nodding at it.

John picked it up and pressed the talk button. 'All right, Sherlock, we're just about to start. Just stay still, OK?'

There was no reply, but Sherlock stayed still.

'OK then,' Doctor Lazenby said. 'Let's go.'

She turned the machine on, and John watched Sherlock's body twitch and stiffen.

'Hold still,' Doctor Lazenby said.

'Hold still,' John told Sherlock through the microphone. 'Take some steady breaths.'

The machine whirled and John watched as an image started appearing on the monitor in front of him. Suddenly the image flashed, disappeared, and the word 'Error' showed. John looked through the window and saw Sherlock twitching.

'Sherlock?'

'Is it over?' Sherlock asked desperately.

'Can you get him to hold still?' Doctor Lazenby asked. 'I'll have to start again.'

John tensed, but he smiled into the microphone. 'You'll have to be a touch more still than that, Sherlock. OK? Just try really hard. Go into your mind palace or something, will you? I've seen you not move for hours before, and this is just ten minutes.'

'Ten awful minutes! I hate this.'

'I know, but it will be over quickly. Just think happy thoughts.'

The screen reset and the images started showing again. They'd got a little further before it flickered and the error sign came up again.

'We'll have to strap him down,' Dr Lazenby muttered. She opened the door into the main room. 'Paula, put the support on Mr Holmes will you?'

John pushed his fury aside so he could talk to Sherlock. 'They're going to use the strap, Sherlock, OK? You can still get out any time you please, but we'll speed up if you don't move.'

'Fine,' Sherlock replied. There was a wealth of sadness and fear in that one word though.

John watched Paula quietly and gently slip the restraining strap over Sherlock's forehead. She did it with a sympathetic look, and John was thankful that there was at least one professional who he could trust in this building.

'Right, let's start again,' Doctor Lazenby said.

The machine whirred and the images started showing again. John watched them intently, almost holding his breath for fear that they'd show some anomaly or other.

'John…' Sherlock whispered.

'I'm here,' John said down the microphone. 'You're doing really well now. We're almost finished.'

'John…'

'It's OK. Don't worry, Sherlock. Don't be scared. There's absolutely nothing that they could find that we couldn't handle together. If there is anything there, we just need to know what we're facing. That's all this is.'

'John…'

'I'm here, Sherlock. I love you. You know that, right? I love you.'

'I know, John. I love you. Are we nearly finished?'

'Nearly. You're doing really well.'

Silence fell between them, and John turned back to the monitor. Doctor Lazenby was looking tense and uncomfortable too now, but John couldn't see anything concerning on the screen.

'John…'

'Nearly done, Sherlock. We're nearly done.'

'John…'

'I'll tell you what though; the sight of your brain is making me really hot for you right now. That must make it worth it, surely?'

'I love you.'

'I know, Sherlock. Just a minute more now.'

John turned back to the monitor. He noticed Doctor Lazenby's chin was tense and her jaw was clenched now. Hot fury flooded through him, and he had to take a calming breath of his own.

'There. We're done,' Doctor Lazenby muttered.

'Thank God for that,' John replied. 'OK, Sherlock….'

'John!'

Sherlock was flailing slightly now, and Paula was hurrying to pull his trolley from the machine. John leapt up and pushed past Dr Lazenby back into the room. He snaked his arm under the panicking Sherlock's back and helped him up. Paula had the emesis bowl ready for him, and Sherlock gagged and threw up pitifully into it.

'OK now,' John muttered softly, rubbing Sherlock's back as he retched again.

Sherlock was too busy to answer, but his right hand was around John's back, and he grasped a handful of John's jumper. He was quivering.

'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' John said, aching for him. 'I'm sorry, but it's all done now.'

Sherlock coughed and spat. 'Sweetheart?'

John smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. 'I'm trying it out. Are you OK now?'

'No,' he took a few deep breaths though, and he didn't seem in danger of vomiting again.

Paula took the bowl away. 'I'll get a porter to take you back downstairs.'

'Did you find anything,' Sherlock asked huskily.

'Well we found a brain, so that's a good start. I couldn't see anything untoward, but Dr Lazenby's the expert.

Dr Lazenby walked in with the porter with a wheelchair right behind her.

'Well, I couldn't see anything significant,' she said. 'There's evidence of the concussion but that's to be expected. I can't see anything else that would cause me concern. I'm happy to sign him off, and I'll send the results through to his GP.'

'Thanks,' John said. 'Could you send a copy on to Doctor Molly Hooper at Bart's please?'

'Molly?' Sherlock asked.

'That's fine,' Doctor Lazenby said, sounding as though just finding a pen was too much of an imposition. She did write it down though, before sweeping away.

John helped Sherlock back into the wheelchair, and he held out a bowl for the journey just in case. Sherlock gave him a cold stare, so John kept it instead.

'Why do you want Molly to have my brain?' Sherlock asked as they wheeled their way back through the corridors.

'Because Doctor Lazenby wouldn't release it to me, and I'd quite like it at Bart's just in case. Molly won't lose it or throw it away.'

'Just in case?'

'Just in case anything else happens, and I want you to see a neurologist.'

'You won't bring me back to Doctor Lazenby then?'

'No. I will not.'


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

John felt Sherlock's eyes on him, but he chose not to elaborate. Not least because Sherlock might quite like a low-level mystery to think about for a few minutes. They got back to the ward, and settled Sherlock back into his bed. Sherlock lay back on the pillow looking wan and pale, and John put his hand back into the dark hair and stroked. Sherlock just breathed quietly for a few minutes.

'I have reason to believe that my heart is not sweet,' he said eventually.

John smiled. 'OK. Not 'sweetheart'. Noted.'

'Can I go home now?'

'Yes.'

Sherlock looked so surprised that John smiled.

'Look, you need to know that I'm not happy about this,' he said. 'There's no way I'd release a patient as unsteady and clearly concussed as you are right now, but I don't think being here is doing you any favours at all, and you have got the benefit of a live-in doctor and a brother who will send his car for you. It's your turn to try to throw up in it, by the way.'

Sherlock smiled, and his eyes glistened. 'Thank you.'

'It's fine. Now, I suggest I dress you before I call Mycroft. That way you'll have a bit of time to rest, because dressing is going to hurt.'

Sherlock smiled and reached out to stroke John's face. John caught his hand and kissed it.

'You're going to willingly call and speak to my brother,' Sherlock said. 'You must really love me.'

'You know I do.' John kissed the hand again before putting his serious, practical face on. 'Now, we'll get you dressed. I'll do it, and I want you to move as little as possible to help me. Your arm is going to be a problem though, more than the head at this point. I'm going to need to unstrap it to get the gown off, and strap it back up afterwards. I was going to suggest we put the sling back on after you're dressed, which will make you feel a bit less constricted, but given the events of this morning, I think it'll hurt too much. I'll strap it up and you can keep it under your t-shirt. Now, trousers.'

John rooted through his bag for the necessary items and was aware of Sherlock's steady gaze on him has he slipped the carefully chosen red underwear over Sherlock's feet and up his body.

'Nothing about this is in anyway erotic,' John said quietly, keeping his eyes from Sherlock's face.

'No, I can see that,' Sherlock replied.

John sorted the trousers next, slipping them on under Sherlock's gown. There was a moment when Sherlock attempted to lift his bottom but John fixed him with a steady look.

'Don't try to help. Stay as still as you possibly can.'

'But the arm's in the sling at the moment.'

'Stay still and steady; that's all I need you to do.'

He reached under Sherlock's buttocks to take some of the weight of his pelvis, and pulled the trousers the rest of the way.

'OK?' he asked when he'd finished.

'Perfectly fine, thank you. Still no sexual intent, I see.'

John shot him a look and a half smile, and Sherlock smiled contentedly back.

'Now, your arm. I need you to let me know if any of my movements are too painful, but again, let me do the work.'

Sherlock nodded, and John quietly undid the straps that were holding the sling in place. Without moving Sherlock's arm, he slid the fabric down and away. Sherlock kept his arm very still and in position over his chest and onto his shoulder. John nodded briefly, and pulled Sherlock's gown around over the good arm first. He then pulled gently around from Sherlock's left side, and again, moving the arm as little as possible, he slid the fabric out from under Sherlock's arm. Even with all the care in the world, Sherlock winced and caught his breath. John kept going until Sherlock was free. He dropped the gown onto the chair, and took the opportunity to have a quick look at Sherlock's shoulder. The area over the damaged collarbone was swollen and bruised. John sighed and continued without touching it. He slid the plastic sling back up under the folded arm, and Sherlock caught his breath and gritted his teeth.

'You're doing well,' John said quietly. 'Just don't move it.'

There was a moment where John needed to adjust the arm microscopically. Sherlock whispered a curse.

'Swearing's fine,' John said. 'Crying, shouting, and, if you must, a scream are all OK. Just don't move it.'

He finally got the sling into position and started to adjust the straps. There was nothing for it but to move Sherlock forward gently so that he could get the lower strap up around his back. He held the arm in the sling while holding the arm in place and tried to get Sherlock upright.

'No, that's…' Sherlock dissolved into a torrent of swearing and tears. His good arm reached around John's waist and grabbed a handful of jumper.

'Nearly there now. Got it,' John said. He breathed out as the sling to the weight of Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock stayed still, hunched over slightly and breathing in rapid pants.

'You all right?' John asked.

'No.'

'No as in, 'I'm going to throw up or faint', or 'no, this is slightly worse than that paper cut I got last week that I didn't stop talking about for two days'?'

Sherlock snorted through his panting. 'It hurt! It was right into my cuticle and kept pulling open again.' He turned and buried his face in John's jumper.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's head and kissed his hair.

'I do actually know you just wanted to wipe your face on my jumper, you know,' he said.

Sherlock snorted again. 'Well I didn't want to let go of you, and my other arms incapacitated.'

John grinned and kissed Sherlock again. He slipped his arm down to rub Sherlock's back as he straightened up again.

'Right, now, we're not past the point of no return yet,' he said. 'I can quickly put your gown back on over the top and remove your trousers if you want to stay.'

'I don't want to stay.'

'They have good pain medication here.'

'I don't want to stay.'

John smiled and rubbed Sherlock's back again. 'OK then, well sit up again so I can get your t-shirt on.'

Sherlock manoeuvred himself until he was upright, and John dug in his rucksack for the t-shirt. He pulled it out and Sherlock frowned.

'That's pyjamas.'

'I know, but you don't own any t-shirts. We couldn't find the last lot Mrs Hudson bought for you, and there wasn't time to get more.'

'But that's pyjamas. I can't travel across London wearing pyjamas.'

John sighed. 'Nobody will know. As long as we put it on the right way around, no-one can tell the difference.'

'But it's pyjamas. Even if it wasn't, you've brought in tailored trousers for me to wear. Nobody wears t-shirts with tailored trousers.'

'Yes, and I couldn't find any casual trousers for you, so tailored will have to do. Look, I can whip your trousers up and down to my heart's content, so it really doesn't matter what sort they are; I can take them off again at home and put you into pyjamas. I really didn't want to get one of your ridiculous starched shirts on here just and have to risk your collarbone again getting it off when we get home. Now stop complaining while I get this on you, will you?'

Sherlock remained silent while John very carefully and slowly pulled the t-shirt on. He winced as it went over his head, but he didn't cry out.

'Good arm in,' John commanded.

Sherlock dutifully slipped his good arm into the sleeve and started quietly swearing as the fabric stretched and pulled against the sling.

'Right, that'll have to do,' John said. 'Lie back for now, and I'll go and talk to the ward staff.'

John was mildly surprised to find that Sherlock's papers were already on the table at the nurse's station. A ward doctor he hadn't seen before was chatting there. They all stopped to look at John.

'I was wondering if my friend might be discharged sometime soon. Sherlock Holmes?'

There was a flurry of activity while the two nurses looked for Sherlock's file until John gently pushed the folder to them.

'I've got this one,' the doctor said, smiling. 'I'd prefer to not let him go without seeing him though.' He followed John back to Sherlock's room. 'Please forgive the nurses,' he said. 'We've just been landed with a whole heap of cuts, and our ward's been badly hit. Jenny's only been with us for four weeks and the other, I think she's Yvonne or something, she's bank staff. The people who actually know what they're doing have been scattered far and wide.'

'What about Fiona Cartwright,' John asked. 'Is she new too?'

'No, she's just a bit dappy. Don't think badly of us, Doctor Watson, we do have lots of good staff here too. They're just spread a bit thin.'

'I see my reputation precedes me,' John said wryly.

'Yes,' the doctor smiled slightly. 'I read your blog. I must admit I'm eager to meet Mr Holmes in person.'

'Mm. Well, don't think too badly of him. He's not in a good way, and even at his best he can be something of a challenge.'

They went into Sherlock's cubicle.

'You were talking about me,' Sherlock said.

'Well yes,' John replied. 'You are going to be the main topic of conversation right now. This is Doctor… I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.'

'King. Martin King.' He grinned at John's look. 'Yes, my parents were fans. Yes, I do have the obvious middle name.'

'Right. Well, Sherlock, this is doctor King. If you remain polite and calm, there's a fairly decent chance he'll let you come home with me.'

Sherlock gave Dr King a steely and suspicious look.

'Right, well, how's the pain been, Mr Holmes?' Dr King asked.

'It's been delightful. I can quite honestly say it's the most pleasant and joyous pain I've ever experienced.'

'And the nausea?'

'That has been like a paradise of angels.'

'Have you eaten yet?'

'I asked for roasted swan, but they got my order wrong.'

'Sherlock,' John warned.

'The trouble is the pain,' Doctor King said, ignoring Sherlock and addressing John. 'If Dr Lazenby's fine with the brain events, then I'll take her word for that, but he's clearly in a lot of pain. I'd like to give you diclofenac to take home, but he can't have it without food.'

'No, I know. How about if you give me the diclofenac, I won't let him have any on an empty stomach.'

'I could give you some oromorph as well, but…'

'I'll take that and use it sparingly. Look, Sherlock's not going to improve here, and I'm a damned sight more likely to get food and drink and drugs down him when he's in his own flat. Like I say, he can be challenging at the best of times, and I've got a better chance than anyone else of getting him to behave vaguely sensibly.'

'I am right here, you know,' Sherlock said.

'Are you sure?' Doctor King asked John. 'You will be basically caring for him twenty-four hours a day for the next few days at least, and like I say; I've read the blog.'

John grinned. 'Yeah, but I'm used to it. Plus, I'm more likely to get some rest at home too.'

Dr King relented. 'Fine, OK, I'll sign him over to you. Have you got transport?'

'I'll arrange some now. We'll need half an hour to get that organised, and then we'll be out of your hair.'

'Good then.' He checked Sherlock's chart. 'I'll get him topped up for the journey. It was nice to meet you.'

He left, and John smiled after him. 'I liked him,' he said. 'A nice, no nonsense doctor.'

Sherlock glared at him, and he smiled back.

'Well he's going to let you go, and he's going to give you a nice lot of medication.'

'Do I get to negotiate the 'not on an empty stomach' directive?'

'You do not. That one's important. Right, I'd better go and call Mycroft. He'll want to know about your scan. Can I tell him?'

'I don't care either way.'

'OK then. I'll be back in ten minutes.'

John made his way back outside, and took the opportunity to let his face absorb some of the early spring sunshine. He didn't linger long though before he called Mycroft. Mycroft seemed to understand what was necessary quickly, and he didn't question either the scan results, or John's authority to take care of Sherlock. John thanked him and went back inside. On his way back to the ward, he went back to the vending machine for a can of cola.

Sherlock eyed him sternly as he approached the bed.

'Are you going to make me drink that stuff?' he asked.

'I am. And you're going to make a good effort at it too.'

Sherlock sniffed, but he stayed quiet while John opened the can and put a straw in the hole. He even took two mouthfuls before spitting the straw out and shutting his eyes.

'OK, well you can have a bit more in a minute,' John said. 'Other than that, it's just sitting and waiting for the car.'

'I hope Mycroft's quick.'

'Mm.'

Mycroft's transport wasn't quick. They waited for nearly fifty minutes while Sherlock sipped at the cola and grew increasingly anxious and therefore cross.

John was on the point of calling Mycroft again when a portly man, sweating slightly, made his way into the room with a gormless looking young chap behind him, shuffling his feet.

'Er, Sherlock Holmes?' the more mature man asked.

'That's us,' John said, waving.

The man looked confused and slightly upset by this turn of events.

'Mycroft clearly isn't vetting his drivers as well as he could be,' Sherlock murmured.

'Sh,' John hissed. He smiled at the man and reached out to shake his hand, which also seemed to alarm him. The youth stayed well out of range.

'Sorry I'm late,' the man said. 'I parked by the morgue, and it's taken us an age to find you.'

'Why did you park at the morgue?' Sherlock asked.

'Force of habit?' the driver suggested.

'Well you're here now,' John said, smiling warmly again. 'Let's get on with this, shall we? Can you pop out to borrow a wheelchair while I get Sherlock up?'

'A wheelchair?'

'Yes. A wheelchair,' John said firmly.

'But we've got a stretcher,' the youth said.

'A _wheelchair_,' John said firmly.

The man left with the boy trailing behind him, and Sherlock whispered frantically at John.

'Who are these people? What the hell is Mycroft doing? You should call him to confirm or something; this bloke could be anyone, and someone has tried to kill me quite recently.'

'Yes, I do see what you mean. Give me ten minutes…'

'No, call from here!'

'Sherlock…'

'It's a thirty second call.'

John looked around the room. Most of the other occupants had been moved now, and the remaining two weren't hooked up to any alarming machines. He risked a quick call.

'Mycroft I… Yes they're here but… I'm sure the company is reputable, but where did you find them?' John's eyes widened. 'You did what?... No, that's fine, that's perfectly… fine.' He hung up.

'What?' Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

'Mycroft booked a private ambulance for you.' John couldn't help it and his face twitched into a grin.

'He did what?'

'I'm sure it was an honest mistake.'

'This is not funny, John!'

'No, no, of course not. Not funny at all.' John giggled.

'I can't go home in a private ambulance! Mrs Hudson will have a heart attack when she sees it pull up.'

'It'll be fine. I mean, she's smart enough to work out that I'm not likely to be bringing you home dead.'

'But…'

John couldn't help it, and he giggled again. Sherlock, watching him couldn't stop his face twitching into a smile in response.

'Surely Mycroft knows the distinction,' John said through his giggles.

'Possibly not,' Sherlock answered. 'I imagine if he wants a body moved he tells someone to get rid of it. And if he wanted to book a non-NHS ambulance, he'd just ask someone to book…'

'A private ambulance.' John tried to hide another smile.

'I will fit in it, I suppose?'

'Well you are basically corpse shaped.' John sniggered again.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head as the confused driver returned pushing a wheelchair. He'd at least shaken off the boy.

'I'm glad we didn't order a private wheelchair,' Sherlock muttered. 'Mycroft would probably send a coffin on a trolley.'

John broke into peals of laughter again, and the driver gave them a look which suggested he did not expect his clients to behave in this manner. Sherlock chuckled too.

John steadied himself sufficiently to help Sherlock off the bed and into the wheelchair, and he insisted on pushing while the driver led the way to the van. When they found it, it was a tasteful and sedate looking vehicle in black, with the silver words 'Private Ambulance' stenciled down the side. There wasn't a blue light or a reflective strip to be seen.

John started giggling at the sight of it.

'Oh don't start up again,' Sherlock begged. 'Just help me get in.'

'There's a stretcher in there if that's easiest,' the driver said. 'I'm not sure how comfy it is though. There are straps there too, so that nothing rolls off it.'

John lost himself again.

'I'm not sure where you'd rather sit,' the driver said to John, ignoring the laughter. 'You can come in the cab with us, or there's a little drop down seat if you want. Sometimes people need to accompany the… you know.' He blushed.

John laughed.

'If John's travelling with us at all,' Sherlock said crossly, 'and I'm beginning to think of sending him away completely, then he rides in the back with me.'

'That's fine,' John said, wiping his eyes. 'Come on then, let's get you in.'

The driver opened the door at the back and stood aside. John calmed himself and helped Sherlock up and across the pavement to the van.

'You settle him down,' the driver said. 'I'll take the wheelchair back.' He scurried off.

'Yeah, thanks,' John said.

There was a moment of bother when Sherlock had to bend so as not to knock his head on the roof, but eventually he was inside and sitting on the stretcher. It was slightly cushioned, which John was grateful for. He took his coat and jumper off to ball up for a pillow under Sherlock's head, and he helped lower Sherlock down onto it.

'I don't like how wipe clean this seems to be,' Sherlock said.

'That's no different from a medical ambulance,' John said. 'You won't be in it for long.'

'No.' Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

'How are you feeling?' John asked.

'OK for the moment. I'm glad I got that last injection of whatever it was though. The ringing's a bit louder than it was too.'

'OK, well let's get you home to bed.'

The driver came back and shut the rear doors before walking to the front to get in. They were eventually underway and they traveled in relative calm for a good ten minutes.

'John?' Sherlock whispered.

'Mm?'

'I'm nauseous again.'

'Take some deep breaths.'

'I think it's the motion. I can't see out.'

'Close your eyes for a while.'

Sherlock did so and breathed calmly for a minute or two.

'John?' Sherlock said.

John glanced towards the cab and then unclipped his seatbelt and slid down from the seat so that he was kneeling by Sherlock's stretcher. He put his hand in his hair.

'I'm sorry; I forgot to bring a bowl again with all the entertainment. It's just a little while longer, darling. Just hold on now.'

'Darling?'

'Apparently I'm trying that out too.'

'Huh.' Sherlock took a deep breath. 'How's it working out for you?'

'Not great.'

'No. Oh God.' Sherlock turned, and having nowhere else to move he sprayed the cola onto John's chest. He coughed and spluttered. 'Sorry,' he choked out.

'It's OK,' John said, still stroking his hair. 'Feel better now?'

'No.' Sherlock coughed. 'Technically, you did deserve that though.'

'Probably. I'm wondering if I shouldn't mail my shirt to Mycroft though.'

'Huh,' was all the laugh Sherlock could manage. He lay back on the makeshift pillow and closed his eyes.

John dripped slightly and continued to stroke his hair.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

John turned the shower off and instantly heard the sound of the argument.

'There's no point!' Sherlock shouted.

'I know, you keep saying, and John's already told me that you need to eat something, so you'd best just tell me what you want.'

'It doesn't matter! Everything I eat, I throw back up again! There's no point to it at all!'

'That might well be true, but you could just tell me what you'd like to try…'

'You're making my head ring!'

John considered leaving by the kitchen door and running away from the flat entirely. He dried himself for longer than was strictly necessary and wrapped a towel around his torso. He did in fact leave by the kitchen door, but this was only so he could put his gingerly balled up shirt straight into the washing machine and swallow a couple of his own painkillers, and then he did go into the bedroom where two people were ready to insist on his completely impartial refereeship.

'He won't tell me what he wants!' Mrs Hudson complained.

'She's being annoying!' Sherlock said. 'And loud.'

'Yes, I can hear who's being loudest, thanks,' John said. He regarded Mrs Hudson, desperate to help in the only way she felt she was able. 'Mrs Hudson, what are you having for dinner tonight?'

'I've made a nice chicken pie.'

'Do you think there might be enough for two? I've had hardly anything since he went into hospital.'

She softened. 'Yes, of course, dear. I'll do those nice potatoes that you like too, shall I?'

'You're a superstar, Mrs Hudson, you really are.'

'But what about Sherlock? You said with his pills…'

'If you could stick a slice of bread in the toaster on your way past, that would be marvellous. I'll take over from there.'

'OK, John. I'll put the kettle on for you too.' She smiled at him and left.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said quietly.

John waited until Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen before shutting the door and dropping his towel.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said again.

'You're welcome… Oh. Well don't get any ideas. You're a sick man.'

'I'm not sick; I'm injured. There's a difference.' He regarded John carefully. 'That running's working well for you, you know.'

John smiled slightly. 'Good.'

He pulled his pyjamas on, and there was a short and gentle sigh from the bed, and he rubbed at his hair again. He flung his towel through the bathroom door, and he got into bed next to Sherlock.

'OK. There we are. You're home, I'm with you, and I'll be right next to you all through the night. Are things in your personal universe beginning to feel a little more normal?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'And has the room stopped spinning?'

'Mostly. The ringing's bloody awful though. Is that likely to be permanent?'

John ran his hand over Sherlock's head. 'I still don't know. I'm hoping when the brain stuff settles down, that will too.'

'The brain stuff?'

'At the moment I'm just talking about the concussion.'

'But you're still fretting about these two badass seizures.'

'Yes.' He snuggled closer to Sherlock. 'I don't mean to be though, and I'm beginning to feel a certain amount of sympathy about what you went through when my body was being unreliable ' He looked at Sherlock's concerned face. 'It's a completely irrational fret, this fret of mine. There's no reason to believe there will be more, and there was no sign of any major problems in the scan, but at the moment I can't get it out of my mind.' His mind drifted to the sight of Sherlock seizing in front of him, until he realised Sherlock was frowning at him. 'You shouldn't fret through.'

'No, I won't. You've soothed my mind on the subject brilliantly, thanks.'

John smiled. 'Sorry.' There was the sound of toast popping up, and he rolled himself off the bed. 'I'm going to sort out your lunch and make some tea. Mrs Hudson bought about nineteen boxes of mint tea when I was ill. Would you like to try a cup of that?'

'I suppose so. If it'll get people off my back.'

John went through to the kitchen where he took the slice of toast, left it try, and cut it into five equal strips. He then turned them and cut them into five rows of more or less equal squares. He scooped them up and put them onto a side plate and started his tea.

His phone rang and he cursed. He noted it was Mycroft and cursed again, but he answered anyway.

'Mycroft, we're home and he's safe, thank you.'

'John, I understand there may have been some confusion.'

'Yes, we did wonder about that.'

'I will make sure the person involved is suitably disciplined.'

'Hang on a second, what precisely happened?'

'She's new to us, and she misunderstood my instruction.'

'What was your instruction, precisely?'

There was an uncomfortable pause. 'I asked her to hire an ambulance to take my brother home.'

'An ambulance?'

'I may have suggested that a private ambulance was necessary but…'

'So she did exactly what you said.'

'But surely she must have known that my brother wasn't dead! Although, that would explain why she looked at me in the way that she did. I think it's possible that my callous attitude surprised her.'

John grinned. 'For future reference, it might be worth committing the term private patient transportation to memory. Or even St John's ambulance; they'll let people hire if they're not otherwise busy. Look, it doesn't matter now; Sherlock is home and perfectly well. Well enough anyhow. Though I've told the driver to valet his vehicle and to add it to your invoice. Sherlock had a bit of an accident.'

'An accident?'

'Yes, the sort of accident that's not usual from a corpse. He's fine though.'

'Good. Thank you, John.'

'John!' Sherlock bellowed. John rushed through to him. 'If that's Mycroft, tell him I'm going to kill him, and ask if there has been anymore interaction on Moriarty's server.'

John sighed. 'He says 'hi', Mycroft. I've got to go now.' He hung up.

Sherlock looked furious.

'Settle down,' John said. 'If you're not well enough to eat or drink, you're not well enough for case work.'

Sherlock attempted to fold his arms in a huff, caught his bad shoulder and wailed a curse.

'I'll get you something to eat, and then you can have your painkillers, OK?'

Sherlock used some language that indicated that it was far from OK. John returned to the kitchen to finish the tea. He balanced the plate with toast on top of Sherlock's cup, and took it all into the bedroom. When he got there he found that Sherlock had moved far enough across the bed to grab his phone from the table, and he was now texting furiously with his one good hand and a frown on his face.

'I'll have that back please,' John said, putting everything down.

Sherlock ignored him. John got back into the bed and looked at Sherlock who very carefully didn't look back at him.

'Fine. Open.'

Sherlock's mouth opened automatically, and John dropped in a small piece of toast. Sherlock's frown deepened, but he did chew and swallow it.

'Don't do that,' he said when his mouth was clear.

'OK. Sorry.'

John watched Sherlock work for a few minutes.

'Open,' he said quietly.

Sherlock obeyed, and John dropped another piece of toast in. There was another disgruntled chew and swallow.

'Stop doing that,' Sherlock said.

'I'm finding it interesting that your brain can't overrule your mouth when I'm offering it food. On the other hand, I'm not sure I've ever seen your brain overrule your mouth about anything much.'

Sherlock didn't look up from the phone screen. 'I'm not impressed with you,' he said.

'You're going to have something to drink now. Don't argue about it.'

John very carefully held Sherlock's cup to his lips, and Sherlock did take two small mouthfuls.

'There, I've eaten. Can I have the medication now?'

'You haven't eaten. You've barely had a mouthful of toast. Here's another.' He popped more toast in Sherlock's clearly willing mouth. 'You know what, Sherlock? I think you might be hungry.'

Sherlock sighed and finally put the phone down so that he could put his head back on the pillows and look green.

'You're all right,' John said. 'Just stay still for a minute or two, and you can have a bit more toast in a second. I'll be taking that though.' He slipped the phone from Sherlock's hand and put it back on the table.

'John, I think you should know that I'm miserable,' Sherlock said pathetically.

'It's OK. I'd picked up on that fact.'

'You should also know that I'm getting a new-found respect for what you went through for those months too.'

'You'll be fine, Sherlock. Now you're not moving around or being annoyed by a whole heap of nurses, you'll feel better before you know it.'

'It's not just that. I want to know what's going on. I want to know who planted that bomb. I want to know why they waited for the majority of the evacuation took place before detonating it. I want to know who these people are who are talking together on Moriarty's network, and I want to know what it is that they're saying. I hate not being able to work on those questions.'

'I know,' John said. 'But you'll be able to start working again in just a few days.' He gently kissed Sherlock's head. 'Just be patient for now, OK?'

Sherlock sighed a long sigh and glanced at John. 'How many more toast pieces do I need to eat before I can have the painkillers?'

'Ten.'

'Ten in total? So eight?'

'No. Ten more.'

Sherlock sighed again. 'Fine. Let's get on with it then.'

The day dissolved into one long series of John coaxing Sherlock to eat and drink, Sherlock complaining bitterly about everything, painkillers being swallowed, John tentatively walking Sherlock around to the bathroom and back, more eating and more complaints.

It wasn't until John pointed out that Sherlock hadn't vomited since the incident in the private ambulance and that perhaps he should start to trust his stomach that Sherlock did start to settle down a little. Unfortunately this was about half an hour before Mrs Hudson brought two laden plates of pie, potato and peas up to the kitchen to eat with John. John ate hungrily for a few minutes before Sherlock wailed that the smell of it was turning his stomach.

This was followed by a series of piteous moans and groans until John abandoned his meal and went back into the bedroom to check on him. Sherlock was fine, but by the time John was confident about this, Mrs Hudson had taken her dinner back downstairs, and John's had been covered by a dish and tea-cloth to keep warm. This hadn't worked.

The evening then turned to John coaxing food into Sherlock and Sherlock complaining about it, though now with the added element of John sneaking out to the kitchen to steal bites of his own, cold dinner whenever he thought he could get away with it.

He was pleased when it was late enough to suggest Sherlock take his night-time dose and go to sleep.

It wasn't the best night sleep that either of them had ever had, but John was woken by a sleepy '_John_…' and he smiled, vaguely satisfied that all was well in the world. Certainly in the areas that really mattered. Unfortunately, this was immediately followed by a tentative wriggle to get closer, and a spectacularly misjudged roll to get closer still, and Sherlock woke up bellowing in pain.

'It's all right,' John said, helping him to roll back into a more suitable position. 'It's OK, just lie still.'

'It's not OK! It bloody hurts!'

'I know. Let's get you fed and drugged up. Did you want me to bring you breakfast in bed, or did you want to get up.'

Sherlock wiped his face. 'Get up,' he said grumpily. 'Bed is hardly a haven of safety or comfort anyway.'

John agreed and helped Sherlock up and into the front room. Though the look on his face was still quite intense, Sherlock insisted the pain was rapidly diminishing. John suspected an ulterior motive, but he thought he might as well seize the opportunity and he placed breakfast in front of Sherlock. He did surprisingly well, managing half a slice of toast and several mouthfuls of tea before turning triumphantly to John.

'There; I've eaten breakfast. Now give me the Y1752 file.'

Instead John gave him a small pot of yoghurt. Sherlock scowled, but he ate two thirds.

'Now,' he stopped to take a deep breath. 'Pass me the Y1752 file. And something to stop my shoulder aching so much.'

John smiled and passed him pills and the neat black file. All the pictures and notes with their attached coded messages had been transferred to this file now, and Sherlock took them all out and spread them on the table. When he started making little annoyed clucking noises, John quietly removed the computers and various paperwork so that Sherlock had more room.

'Pencil,' Sherlock said quietly.

John put one in his hand.

He then sat down quietly on the sofa to watch Sherlock work. Sherlock used the pencil sparingly, making just one or two marks on the paper. After about an hour he stretched, appearing to forget that his left arm was strapped up and he cried out in pain and swore. John was quickly up, but Sherlock glared at him.

'I'm fine! It was an accident, and I'm fine. Leave me alone.'

'Hello? Something wrong?' They looked up as Mrs Hudson came into the living room carrying a basket of flowers. 'These arrived for you Sherlock.'

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Sherlock tried to shrug but winced in the attempt. John went to take the flowers.

'They just say 'get well soon.' No name. Could be from Molly I suppose.'

'She'd sign her name.'

'The people at the Yard? Some of them like you.'

'Not that much. Where did they come from? What service?'

'I don't know,' Mrs Hudson said.

'John.'

That was it. That was the only instruction that Sherlock felt that was necessary. John took the flowers and wondered whether he should water them and display them in a pleasing fashion, but he felt that Sherlock wasn't well enough yet to see the humour. Instead he put them in the kitchen and started up his computer to start looking up flower delivery services.

He called around seven local florists within the first half hour with no success at all, and then he stopped for a while and made tea instead.

About two hours on, Sherlock shuddered and closed his eyes. He pushed himself up from the table.

'What is it?' John asked.

'Nothing. Bathroom.' Sherlock stomped through, and a few minutes later he stomped out again. He frowned at the flowers on the table as if he wasn't expecting to see them there at all.

'Pass me my phone,' he said.

'Where is it?'

'Mantelpiece.'

John rolled his eyes, but went to retrieve Sherlock's phone. Sherlock took it back to the table and started scrolling through texts. John sat down on the sofa again and waited. It was a further forty minutes before Sherlock spoke again.

'It's Irene Adler.'

'Sorry what, love?'

Sherlock looked up. 'The codes for each correspondent are different. They also change regularly as you would expect which is making it hard to decipher. From my initial work, from the patterns of repetitions throughout the blocks of code, and by comparison to the letter and word repetitions in the Adler texts, I'm relatively certain now that the ?2 account is being regularly used by Irene Adler. I suspect her in two of the JM cases too. I think I'll have cracked the various codes on that second unknown account completely in the next half hour.'

John closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them again and sat forward. 'No, Sherlock, I'm sorry but that's not possible.'

'I'm sure enough to inform Mycroft.'

'No, listen…' John came to sit at the table with Sherlock. 'Look, I'm sorry; this is something I should have told you before, but when I said that Irene went into a witness protection plan, I… well, I'm sorry, Sherlock I really am, but I lied. We lied to you. Well, it was my choice, Mycroft left it up to me but…' He sighed and looked up at Sherlock. 'Sherlock, I'm sorry. She's dead.'

'No, she's not.'

'Yes, she is. I'm sorry. She was killed by a terrorist cell. Mycroft has a video.'

'No, he doesn't. John, I knew you were lying then, and I knew you thought she was dead. She wasn't killed by the terrorist cell. I was there.'

John stared, wondering when these words would start to make sense to him.

'She's alive,' Sherlock said. 'Or at least she was when I left her all those months ago. She had a plan to go and settle in Slovakia at first. She didn't have friends there but she didn't have enemies either. She moved around, I know, but I lost track of her a couple of times but she resurfaced again, and then she vanished entirely.'

John stared. His mouth opened and closed a few times. A number of things passed through his mind in quick succession. Eventually, his expression seemed to break through into Sherlock's consciousness.

'John…?'

John stood up, shaking his head. He walked steadily up to his old room, listening to Sherlock calling behind him, and when he got upstairs he slammed the door shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

John had only just sat down on his bed when the inevitable knock came.

'John?' Sherlock called. 'John, can I come in.'

John didn't answer, but he waited, and of course Sherlock came in.

'When were you going to tell me?' John asked quietly.

'I wasn't going to tell you,' Sherlock answered. 'It isn't a big deal to me.'

John shook his head angrily and looked away.

'It isn't, John. I don't know why you're upset.'

'Well let me see,' John replied at something just below the level of a shout. He got up and paced up and down his room. 'Let's move aside from the fact that we are in a relationship, tentative it's true, but it's been going on a while now, and even though we've discussed the most recent significant other in your life, you didn't bother to tell me you were in contact with her! Let's move aside from all of that and focus on the fact that you've played me for a God-damned fool _again_!'

Sherlock stared. 'She wasn't a significant other. And I'm not in contact with her. Like I said just now, I don't even know where she is anymore.'

'But she still feels close enough to you to send you get well flowers, or so you suspect.'

'But I had nothing to do with that!'

'But you at least know she is sodding alive! A pretty major fact that you specifically chose to keep from me!'

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. 'I don't know what you want! Do you want a list of everyone I've ever met and details of where they are and when they were last in contact with me?'

'No! Irene Adler is different!'

'Not to me! To me she's nothing more than a woman who I came into contact with a few times over the course of my work. Nothing more than that. Certainly nothing for you to be jealous of…'

'I'm not jealous!' John yelled.

'… And I don't understand how it's so very different from your ex-girlfriends. I'm not jealous of them.'

John took a couple of deep breaths. 'That isn't true.'

'What part of it?'

'Any of it.' John shook his head. 'You might not be jealous of my exes as such, but you do keep track of them. You do like to know where they are and who they're with, and you were quite elated when you found out that Jeanette was getting married. So don't claim you're not concerned. But you don't have any reason to be concerned, as it happens, because the one time one of my exes got in contact and wanted to go for coffee, I told you, straight away. I gauged your reaction, because I thought you had a right to have a reaction.'

'I said it was fine!'

'While every part of you clearly screamed that it wasn't! When I chose not to go, you nearly fell down with relief!'

'But I…'

'And don't try to tell me that Irene bloody Adler is just like any other person in the world, because we know she's not.'

'She…'

'She's not! How many others of Moriarty's henchmen would you fly halfway around the world to try and save? She was flippin' instrumental in pulling apart some major government anti-terrorist scheme, and you just bloody _forgave_ her. Are you telling me that doesn't make her a tiny bit different than the others.'

'I…' Sherlock stopped, as if he were suddenly uncertain of what to say. He looked at John who was standing still now with his arms crossed over his chest. 'I think you should know that when you start acting like a soldier I get very turned on.'

'What?' John's eyebrows flew almost all the way into his hair.

'When you're organising people and taking command, I find it… What?'

'Do you _really_ think this is the time for that?'

Sherlock stared, frozen. He swallowed. 'Actually yes, this does seem like the sort of time when I should remind you how much I love you and the specific reasons for that. If it isn't, then I don't know when would be!' Sherlock grabbed handfuls of his hair. 'I don't know how to do this, John! I don't! I've clearly done something that's hurt or frightened you, but I swear I couldn't have predicted that in advance. I'm sorry for it though, and yes, this seems like the perfect time to list all the things I love about you.'

John deflated slightly. 'OK, well perhaps you have something of a point there. But we also need to have a conversation about the actual matter in hand.'

Sherlock nodded and sat down on the bed, and wiped a slightly quivering hand across his face. 'I don't know how to do this, John. I still don't know what I'd have done differently at the time. Perhaps part of the reason for not telling you was fear that you'd have this reaction. You don't like not knowing what I know, and perhaps on some level I knew the Adler thing was a little… _different_, and might be worse, and then there would be no way of letting you know what I know without indicating that at some point I did know something that you didn't, and that might make you a little… upset.' He sighed and shut his eyes. 'I'm sorry. I'm in quite a lot of pain just now, and it's making my thoughts less coherent than they might otherwise be.'

John startled and looked at the clock. 'God, I'm sorry; we're overdue for your last dose. Let's go and sort that out.'

'In a minute,' Sherlock said tiredly. 'Come and sit here with me first. Please.'

John nodded and sat down next to him. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'I didn't intend to make you feel that you can't handle a relationship. Look, this sort of thing happens between people all the time. You did something for whatever reason, and I got cross. It's over now.'

'It's over?' Sherlock panicked.

'No, not 'it' as in the relationship, you fool. 'It' being the argument. That's over.' He tentatively put a hand on the small of Sherlock's back and rubbed it. Sherlock did seem to relax again slightly. 'I think I might actually understand,' he went on. 'I don't want to, but if I'm forced to be rational and reasonable about it, you lied to me about Irene Adler being dead to protect my feelings as a direct result of me lying to you about Irene Adler being alive to protect your feelings. So technically we might be as bad as each other.'

Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John's head and slowly blew warm air through his hair. 'Apart from mine was a lie by omission, so yours was worse.'

John snorted. 'I didn't mean to become quite so agitated. I'm sorry. There is something about her that just sets me off.'

'Me too.'

'Not helpful, Sherlock.'

'Sorry.'

'I mean, there hasn't been anyone else in your life ever. There's only ever been me and her, so she seems like an overwhelming threat where perhaps she wouldn't be if she was one among many.' He frowned. 'There hasn't been anyone else, has there?'

'There hasn't even been her. There's only ever been you, as far as I'm concerned.'

The sat quietly together for a while.

'John?' Sherlock said quietly.

'Mm?'

'You said we were tentative. Are we still tentative?'

'Not if you don't want to be. If you're happy and comfortable, then that's fine.' This was met with quiet reflection, and John inwardly sighed. 'Come on, love,' he said, rubbing Sherlock's back again. 'Let's go and get some food and medication into you. Then, if you like, I'll give you a bath.'

Sherlock's eyes flashed. 'Yes. I think that it might be too difficult for me to bath myself in my current state. You doing it would definitely be better.'

John smiled and helped Sherlock up.

They went downstairs together and Sherlock sat tiredly at the table. John went straight past to the kettle.

'Do you think you could manage some eggs?' he asked.

'Mm. What is the most appropriate thing to do with the flowers?'

John turned to look at them. 'I don't know. Do you like them?'

'In what way?'

'In any way.'

'Oh. No. I really don't see the point of flowers unless they're growing outside and being used by bees.' He reached out and stroked a soft petal, such a dark shade of purple it was almost black. 'They drop useful trace evidence onto criminal's clothing, but in a vase or a basket, not really.'

John smiled. 'We've been over this before, Sherlock; we're not getting bees for the flat.'

Sherlock sniggered. 'I still think that it would be an excellent idea, but even so, these flowers are useless to them. Would it be wasteful to bin them?'

'Yes. Mrs Hudson could have them, and if she doesn't want them, she can take them to the church or something.'

'Good. Thank you.'

'Right. Eggs.'

John turned back to the cooker, and after a moment Sherlock got up and carried the flowers downstairs. John frowned, knowing he'd have been happy to do it, and that it couldn't have been easy with only the use of one arm, but if Sherlock wanted to prove a point, then he was powerless to stop him. He cooked omelettes.

Sherlock ate for a while and took his medication, and then quietly suggested that he'd quite like to go and lie down for a while. When John went in to check on him a while later, he was sound asleep. John washed up and went down to see Mrs Hudson.

She answered to his knock looking pleasantly happy and bright.

'Oh, hello, John. Did you want me to come and cook?'

'No, don't be daft; we can't just keep summoning you whenever we need feeding.'

'I don't altogether mind.'

'We had omelette. Sherlock ate for no other reason than he wanted to please me, and now he's asleep.' He lingered in the doorway, waiting for Mrs Hudson to take pity on him.

He didn't wait long.

'Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?' Mrs Hudson asked. 'I've made Genoa cake.'

'I'd love to, thank you.'

He followed her into her little lounge and sat down in one of her armchairs. The flowers were on one of the several coffee tables that Mrs Hudson had squeezed into her flat between the display cabinets of Royal Daulton and Spode figurines. He looked at them, and noted somewhat bitterly that Irene Adler had good taste in flowers.

'They're pretty, aren't they?' Mrs Hudson said, coming in with a tray of teapot and cakes. 'They're a bit modern for the church, I thought, but I'll take them down to Acorns. I think my Nicky would like them.'

Nicky was a young man with several learning difficulties who was generally taken care of in a care home a few streets down. From Mrs Hudson's many descriptions of him, John knew he loved flowers but was increasingly concerned by the girliness of his preferences. Mrs Hudson had planted a vegetable garden with him.

'I hope he likes them,' John said, knowing he would, and that he'd be told another story of the brilliant detective Mrs Hudson lived with who honoured Jack so much he chose to give him his flowers.

'Is Sherlock very ill?' Mrs Hudson asked, handing him a plateful of cake.

'No, no, not at all! God, do I look that down?'

'A little bit.'

'Sorry,' He played with some crumbs on his plate. 'Mrs Hudson, do you remember Irene Adler?'

'Irene Adler? I'm not sure. Was she the one with the dog?'

'With the…? Oh God, no! She's not one of mine; she's one of Sherlock's.'

'Sherlock's?'

'No, not really that.' John smiled grimly. 'She was a case. Remember? The one with the phone.'

'Oh, her! Yes, of course. Pretty young thing, wasn't she, and I remember Sherlock working quite hard on that case. And of course those horrible men.' She shuddered. 'What happened to her?'

'It turns out she's still alive.'

Mrs Hudson nodded. 'Well that's good.'

'Yeah, it's great. The one person I know is able to turn Sherlock's head has suddenly turned back up in his life. It's fantastic.'

'Has Sherlock said he wants to get in touch with her?'

'No. Not at all.'

'But he misses her?' Mrs Hudson suggested.

'No. Actually he says… Actually, he says he didn't have a relationship with her of that sort.'

'Right.'

John sighed and sat forward to try to explain. 'No, I mean, I thought she was dead. Sherlock told me… no, that's not true, he didn't tell me anything. He knew I thought she was dead though, and he let me believe that, all the time knowing that she was very much alive and out there.'

'Oh. Right.'

Mrs Hudson watched him, clearly waiting for him to explain the problem to her, and John realised he was rapidly losing track of what his problem was.

'I just think he should have told me,' he said sullenly.

'You know, I really didn't think that of the two of you, you'd be the jealous one.'

'I'm not jealous!' John blushed. 'And anyway, he's jealous too. He's more jealous, and with less reason.'

She smiled. 'Of course dear. There's no reason at all for him to be concerned about you, with your string of ex-girlfriends in just this country alone, always moving from one to the next with almost no pause between. Of course he has no reason to be worried that he might be just another link in that chain. Particularly when he knows he has almost no aptitude for relationships, and he knows it's not the sort of thing you can learn about in books.'

John picked at a chip in the plate and pouted.

'That's the spirit, dear,' Mrs Hudson said and she sipped at her tea, innocently.

'I came down here so you could make me feel better,' he said wryly.

'I know. Fat lot of good that would be if I didn't make you _do_ better though. I will tell you this though; she's not the one person in the world able to turn Sherlock's head.'

'Oh God, there's another one?'

Mrs Hudson gave him a look. 'You have a think about that, dear. Now listen to me, John Watson, you and Sherlock are doing very, very well given that you're, well, you and Sherlock. You just need to remember to be a little tolerant of each other's weaknesses and start trusting each other a little more.'

He wondered what she thought his weakness might be, and the list his brain speedily came up with made him a little cold. 'I suppose.'

'How's your head feeling now?' She asked sympathetically. 'I hope he's not running you about too much.'

'He's fine.'

'Well you should remember to come and ask for help whenever you need it.'

'I will.'

'You should definitely stay down here and watch some uninterrupted TV for a while. Isn't it Doctors round about now? You can correct them without Sherlock getting cross and turning over.'

John grinned. 'I don't understand why it's fine when _he_ does it.'

'It's one of life's little mysteries.' She put the television on.

Mrs Hudson nudged him awake about two hours later. He stared at her dozily.

'Sorry, love, I wouldn't normally wake you, but I can hear him moving about upstairs, and I expect…'

'John!' Sherlock bellowed from upstairs.

'Yep, I see,' John said. He pulled himself up and started up the stairs.

'John!' Sherlock bellowed coming out of the living room. He spotted John on the stairs and stopped. 'Oh. There you are.'

'Yeah, I am allowed to occasionally leave the flat without you, you know.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Not while I'm injured though.' He turned and went back in with John following him. 'Why did you let me sleep so long?'

'Why do you keep complaining at me so much?'

'You said you were going to bath me. I was looking forward to you bathing me and you let me accidentally fall asleep.'

John placed his hands on Sherlock's hips to turn him gently around. 'One, I didn't 'let' you fall asleep; your body made you fall asleep because it's injured, and is trying to repair itself…'

'What's your excuse?' Sherlock said, his eye glancing over John's ruffled hair.

'I was just tired. And two, nobody said I couldn't bath you now.'

'But it's three in the afternoon.'

'Your point is?'

'Ah…' Sherlock said quietly. 'This is this topsy turvy mixed up world again, isn't it.'

John smiled. 'It is. And also,' he stretched to kiss Sherlock's lips. 'I'm sorry that I got a bit mental about Irene Adler. I didn't mean to get that jealous.'

A small smile curled around Sherlock's lips. 'I knew you were jealous.'

'Yes, well done. Now, a bath?'

'Yes.'

John smiled and let Sherlock follow him like a lamb as he went into the bathroom.

'I need to run it first,' John said.

'Mm. Don't make it too hot. You have your baths too hot.'

John turned and gave Sherlock something of a look.

'Sorry,' Sherlock said. 'How about I wait in the bedroom.'

'How about you do.'

John started the water and watched the water cascade into the bathtub, watching the turmoil and froth as it hit the surface. He turned the cold tap up a little higher just in case he accidentally burnt Sherlock's delicate, sensitive skin. He briefly daydreamed about sharing the bath with him, but abandoned it quickly, knowing that they'd never fit. He hoped that one day they'd get to spend some time away at a nice hotel with perhaps a very big bath.

'Do I leave the sling on while I'm bathing?' Sherlock called through.

'Yep. It's waterproof. I'll try my best to keep it dry anyhow though.'

Sherlock appeared just a few moments later, completely naked but for a bright blue sling holding his left arm hard against his chest. Though John had seen him naked plenty of times both before their relationship and since, Sherlock still looked somehow nervous and uncertain. It was clearly one of those times, John thought, with a sudden pull at his heart, when the two of them weren't as normal and natural with each other as he might have hoped they would be by now.

But he remembered Mrs Hudson's words, and forgave Sherlock his reticence.

'Come on,' he said, trying to look as relaxed as possible. 'Do you want me to help you in?'

'No, I think I can…' Sherlock tried, but winced.

'Yeah,' John said, catching him to steady him. 'You never realise how much you use both arms until you haven't got access to one of them. Easy down now.'

Sherlock settled into the water. 'It's just the right temperature,' he said.

John grinned. 'Thank you. You comfy?'

'I want to move my left arm. Other than that, I'm fine. Can you wash my hair?'

'Your stitches…'

'I know, but I'm getting itchy.'

'OK, let's have a look.' He gently sat Sherlock forward and moved parted some of the hair to take a look at his scalp. There were only three stitches in all; looking somewhat sinister surrounded by dark, clotted blood, but it looked as though the lesion was coming along fine. There was a fair amount of dried blood in the hair around it too, and John knew it must be causing a fair amount of discomfort.

'I'm going to have a go,' he said. 'It's going to take a while, and you have to be very still.'

'You tell me to keep still all the time,' Sherlock grumbled.

'Yes. Your failure to listen has given you a broken collar bone and a concussion. Hold still now.'

He very carefully started wetting Sherlock's hair, section by section, and he used a finger full of shampoo at a time to wash each curl before carefully rinsing it clean again. It took a while, and after twenty minutes he shifted his weight and sighed.

'You have far more hair than any human being actually needs.'

'Sorry,' Sherlock said.

'But the good news is that it's now clean. Is the bath too cold now?'

'No, it's the perfect temperature.'

'You said that half an hour ago.'

'Yes, but this time I'm not lying.'

John kissed a conveniently close shoulder. 'OK, I'll do your back now, and then you can just lie back and relax a bit.'

He picked up a soft bristled brush, rubbed it on the soap and slowly brushed down from the base of Sherlock neck to the small of his back, taking care not to knock the strap that held the sling in place.

Sherlock whimpered.

'Sorry,' John said. 'Where did it hurt? Did I catch your sling?'

'It didn't hurt,' Sherlock whispered.

John frowned, but rubbed again. There was a shuddering sigh.

'Do you want me to be gentler?' John asked.

'No,' Sherlock whispered. 'Do not alter what you're doing in terms of pressure, speed or direction.'

John smiled now and brushed again. This time he ignored the shudder and kept brushing. He scrubbed gently up to Sherlock's shoulders and down the tops of his arms. Sherlock didn't purr, obviously, but John was relatively satisfied that if he'd had the ability, he would have been purring good and proper.

He scooped warm water in his hands to rinse Sherlock's back.

'OK, sit back now.'

'No.'

'I've done your back.'

'Yes, but it might be better if you stayed where you were, safely behind me, for the time being.'

John smiled and kissed the shoulder again.

'I don't care,' he whispered into Sherlock's ear. 'I'm glad this is relaxing you, that's all. Now can I move around and do your feet?'

Sherlock nodded quickly. He looked a little embarrassed as John moved down to the other end of the bath and made a sterling effort not to look at anything other than Sherlock's feet or face.

'Can you lift one foot without hurting yourself?'

Sherlock dutifully lifted his right leg. John re-soaped the brush and went to work. The first touch caused a squeal and a retraction.

'Hold still. It'll only tickle for the briefest moment, and then it'll be good.'

Sherlock gave John his foot back. He tensed as John started washing, first the sole, then the top, then the sole again. By the time John had abandoned the brush and worked his way to the individual toes, Sherlock looked so relaxed he was nearly asleep. John smiled.

'Other foot,' he ordered.

Sherlock compliantly dropped his right foot and lifted his left. John worked slowly and diligently. He finished the left foot and let the foot drop.

The only indication that Sherlock was still awake was the merest hint of glinting eyes under the drooping lids.

He didn't bother asking for further instructions; he just exchanged the brush for a sponge and slowly and gently started soaping Sherlock's torso, taking care not to make the sling too wet or to move it in any way. Sherlock stayed still and docile the whole time, breathing very slowly, with a look of absolute serenity on his face. When he'd finished, John sat back and wondered what to wash next.

Very briefly.

Making sure not to make any movements that might alarm Sherlock, he gently and calmly washed downwards. Sherlock breathed out very softly.

'What's in this for you?' he asked quietly.

John startled out of his daydream.

'Sorry,' Sherlock said. 'I really didn't mean to ask that out loud. Carry on.'

John sat back on his heels. 'No, it's fine. I just thought you seemed to be enjoying it, that's all, and sometimes it's nice to see you looking so relaxed and, well, almost not yourself. I mean, perhaps not all the time, because you being yourself is clearly attractive too, but, well, when you're all comfortable like this, it's nice. And sometimes it's nice to just make you feel, well, good, even if I'm not feeling that specific sort of good myself right then.' He smiled. 'Plus, the view's not bad.'

Sherlock gave him a half smile. 'Thank you. I didn't mean specifically with the bath though. The bath is just one example of you, doing what you do to make me feel… extraordinary, and I don't know how to make you feel the same way. I can barely prevent you from feeling like a god-damned fool, even though I never intend it. I don't know what I'd do for you to make you feel this… _this_. So I wondered what's in this for you? Surely it isn't just someone close by whom you can call 'love'.'

'I don't call you love.'

'Three times in the last six hours.'

'Oh, sorry.'

'No. don't be. I don't dislike it. It doesn't answer my question though. You care. You give me baths. You know exactly what to do to turn me on. I'm deficient in all these areas, so what's in it for you.

John smiled at him and leant in to kiss him.

'Everything,' he whispered into his mouth. 'I love you. Sometimes that's enough.' He leaned back again. 'Now, would you like me to keep going?'

Sherlock smiled and nodded deep and slow. 'If you would be so kind…'


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sherlock lay on the sofa with cushions bolstering his back. His knees were bent to form a makeshift lectern on which was balanced a large book, on which was resting a slip of coded paper. He had a pencil in his right hand, which he gently tapped against his lips.

John sat on his armchair, apparently reading the newspaper, but realistically just enjoying the view.

'Would more coffee help?' he enquired.

There was no answer. Just the steady tapping of Sherlock's pencil against his lips.

The doorbell rang, and Sherlock failed to move or respond at all.

'I'll get it,' John said brightly. He grinned at Sherlock and ran downstairs to open the door.

Lestrade was standing on the doorstep vaguely shielding another cardboard folder from the drizzly rain with his body.

'Morning,' he said.

'Is that it?' John nodded at the folder.

'All I've got.'

John stood aside to let Lestrade in, and he followed him upstairs to the flat.

Sherlock finally showed some signs of life.

'Is that it?' he asked.

'Yep.' Lestrade held the folder out to Sherlock, who opened it over the one already on his knee.

'John,' he said.

John turned the kettle on and returned to Sherlock. He took the printed photograph that was being held up to him. It depicted Sherlock on the ground in the shopping centre, his head surrounded by blood and vomit, and John, sitting just a few feet from him being tended by the paramedic. The John in the photograph was ignoring the paramedic and was staring at the unconscious Sherlock with a look of deep concern on his face. Both of them looked slightly grey.

The next page was a close up of John's face from the photo. Underneath were the words; 'Oh, the poor man thinks Sherlock Holmes really cares.'

John cleared his throat. 'Well, it's not like we didn't know they were watching.'

'Mm,' Sherlock said. He was looking at two more sheets of paper covered with blocks of code. The blocks were short here, but plentiful. People not detailing a plan, but having an exhilarated conversation afterwards.

Sherlock put the new folder on the floor and went back to the old one, his pencil tapping once more.

'Coffee, Greg?' John asked, going back to the kitchen.

'I wouldn't say no.' He followed John. 'How is he?'

'In pain, fractious and bored. The fact the he can't keep going like he normally does is causing him more distraction than the ruddy shoulder. Anything easier going on at the moment?'

'No, not really. Only yes, actually, and I meant to tell you; I saw Mrs Hudson earlier at a place called Acorns. Does she have a son or a nephew or something there?'

'No, she just likes to help out. Why were you there?'

'One of their care-workers was found dead there this morning.'

'What's the connection to Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said, and Lestrade jumped.

'God, you walk like a cat sometimes. There's no connection as far as I know.'

'You have no time for that tea, John. We'll go down to Acorns right now.'

'No, wait a second…' John said.

'You can't go out; you're sick,' Lestrade said.

'I'm not sick; I'm injured.'

Lestrade's eyes flickered down to the bright blue sling which Sherlock had finally been allowed to wear over his shirt. 'How long do you have to wear that?'

'Five weeks,'

'I said eight,' John said.

'Yes, and that was an inflated number to ensure I didn't injure myself.'

'Sherlock,' John said, 'these people at the home, you can't… well you can't… it might be better if you don't…'

'Be myself? Fine, you can do the talking, and I'll do the observing. I'm going to get my shoes.' He marched smartly to the bedroom.

Lestrade gave John a look. 'How long does he have to keep the sling on?'

'About four weeks.'

'Clever. Is he really well enough to come?'

'Anything would be better than staring at unsolved code all day. I'd give it another three hours before he loses it and breaks something.'

'John!' Sherlock yelled. 'I need you to come and tie my shoelaces!'

John rolled his eyes, but he did go through to the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting straight backed on the bed, and John knelt in front of him to tie the shoes.

'You need some loafers,' he said.

'I really don't. John…' He gently touched John's brow and John looked up at him. 'You need to take care of Mrs Hudson. This is connected to me; I'm sure of it, and they've only gone to Acorns because she's there.'

John gave was a short nod of his head. 'OK, you're done.'

'They're too loose.'

John sighed and started to retie them. Sherlock grinned happily.

'Do you think you could tell me,' John said, pulling at a lace, 'what it is precisely that I do when I'm cross that turns you on? Just so I can do it without you needing to annoy me?'

'No, there's just something about the whole me annoying you, you jumping to my bait thing that's a real turn on. Sorry.'

John looked up at him. 'So it could just be that all the times you've really pissed me off, that was just that you were gagging for it.'

'I'll wait in the living room,' Lestrade said from the doorway, and John turned to see his retreating form.

'Did you know he was there?' John asked.

'Mm. Now I'm particularly turned on. We should remember this,' Sherlock said, looking down at him. 'This might be a convenient position for… things.'

'Oh, that's true. I bet nobody else in the whole history of the world has ever thought of it. Now come on, and _please_ behave yourself.' He stood and pulled Sherlock up from the bed.

They went to gather coats from the living room, Sherlock grumbling about the sling as he did so, and they went out to the street.

Acorns care home was a simple, large house where two house-parents and other helpers took care of ten adults with specific special needs. Five of the charges had Downs Syndrome, and they were encouraged in both education and work depending on the severity of their condition and their own preferences. It was run by Jackie and Nathan Millhouse, who lived at the home, along with two night carers who alternated their shifts sleeping in a small room in the attics, and two further daytime carers. In addition to these, there were a number of different therapists who came to work with the tenants.

The building, from outward appearances, seemed tidy, smart, and relaxing. John had passed it many times, and though he hadn't instantly connected it to the care home Mrs Hudson had prattled about, when he did, he certainly had a favourable impression of it.

He walked up the steps now, and followed Lestrade into the entrance hall. It was decorated in much the same way that an ordinary family home might be, complete with framed pictures of various people on the walls, interspersed and a hall table with a cordless phone and a ball of wool, just placed there by someone passing by.

'Oh, Inspector,' a bearded, middle aged man said, coming down the sweeping staircase. 'I wasn't expecting you to come back so soon.'

'I'm sorry, it was unexpected. This is a colleague of mine, Detective Sherlock Holmes, and his… Doctor John Watson. I hope it's not too inconvenient that we're here. Guys, this is Nathan Millhouse.'

'No, not at all.' Nathan replied, shaking hands. 'But of course, everyone's in a fluster today. I've got Kate to come in on her day off to help out, and I've got the girl from the agency again, if she ever shows up, and a couple of volunteers… Sorry, I'm babbling. Jackie's gone to bed. I mean, she's just shattered with it all, and I'm in a bit of a dither without her to help. I need to start calling people's families. I don't want anyone to find out via the News or anything. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, gentlemen, would you like to go into the breakfast room? I think it's empty now.'

They went through into a bright, south-facing room, with French windows through to the garden. It might have been called the breakfast room, but it showed signs of being a casual break-out room, ready for any activities. There were comfortable chairs, and John sat on a sofa next to Sherlock.

'Lestrade's filled us in on the basic outline,' Sherlock said. 'The woman was found dead in her room this morning, murdered apparently by poisoning.'

Nathan's lips paled and stiffened. 'Well, we're still hoping…' his voice died away.

'Mr Millhouse,' John said. 'I'm sure we're all hoping that this was simply unfortunate but entirely natural circumstances. Trust me, if that's the case then Sherlock will find that out very quickly. In the meantime, while there is a question over it, it's better if we're here as early as possible to find out what happened. I'm sure you understand that.'

Nathan nodded. 'Yes, of course. I am sorry, gentlemen. I've known Hannah for three years. I just can't believe something like this…'

'Yes, good.' Sherlock said. 'Who discovered the corpse and when?'

'Er, she didn't come down to help with getting up. Jackie went up to see if she was OK just before breakfast time.'

'I see. May we see the room? Is the body still here?'

'She's been moved to Bart's, Sherlock,' Lestrade said, giving him ever so subtle 'shut up' signals.

'Never mind,' Sherlock said. 'There's a small chance that the room hasn't been disturbed too much. Let's go.' He leapt up and looked expectantly at Nathan.

Nathan had little choice but to stand and lead them upstairs. They got to the first floor and heard the sounds of somebody wailing while someone else tried to soothe and calm them.

'I'm so sorry,' Nathan said. 'That's Sean. He's not calm at the best of times, and this has really shaken him up. He's already been all up in arms this week because he thinks Jenny was trying to steal his favourite teddy bear. Oh Lord, I really don't know whether we should have Jenny back. Sean hated her. He wasn't the only one either. Jackie wasn't keen either but I thought she was perfectly charming.' He stood still and dithered slightly. 'I honestly don't know what to do today.'

Sherlock stared blankly at him.

'It must be very hard,' John said.

'Yes, it is. Usually we try to take particular care of Sean's likes and dislikes, but I desperately need the help, and Jenny at least knows the lay out of the building. God, I'm babbling again. I could never ever have imagined something like this…'

'It happens all the time,' Sherlock said.

'Though it's always very distressing,' John added. 'Thanks for taking the time for us.'

'Yes.' Nathan's face cleared as he seemed to remember what he was doing, and he turned to lead them along the hallway.

Sherlock's phone rang. He fished it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. He rolled his eyes and passed it straight on to John, who saw a deeply unflattering picture of Mycroft with the words 'Moron calling' underneath. He watched the others head up a narrower, straight staircase as he answered the call.

'Mycroft.'

'John? Is my brother still unwell?'

'He's doing very well, actually, and I'd like to take the opportunity to thank you for not bothering him incessantly to wish him well or to ask how he's doing, or to check whether there's anything he might need.'

There was a sharpness to the silence from the other end of the phone, and John allowed himself a triumphant grimace.

'Well if he _is_ well,' Mycroft said stiffly, and of course I trusted you entirely to let me know if he were not, but if he is perhaps well enough for work, there is a little matter that I would like him to look into for me.'

'And what's that?'

'The Foreign Secretary's son lives in a sheltered accommodation establishment for adults with special needs. His name is Sean Jeffries. Apparently there has been a small incident there and Mr Jeffries is quite concerned…'

'Yeah, the _small incident_ happens to be the possible murder of a young woman, Mycroft.'

'You've heard?'

'If you're talking about Acorns on Harewood Avenue, and if you're not then I'm a bit worried that there have been two of these today, then we're already there.'

'Why are you there?'

'Sherlock heard and he wanted to come.'

'Right. Well, I trust you will take the Foreign Secretary's concerns under advisements? If there has been an attempt to attack him via his son, I will need to know about it immediately.'

'Understood. I'll let Sherlock know.'

'Much obliged.' Mycroft disconnected.

John was all set to follow Sherlock upstairs when a door opened along the corridor and Mrs Hudson came out along with a young man.

'OK now, Nicky?' she asked. 'Oh, John!'

'Hi. Hello Nicky.' John went up to them.

Nicky shuffled his feet and looked confused. He held tightly onto Mrs Hudson's wrist.

'It's OK, Nicky,' Mrs Hudson said soothingly. 'This is my friend John. I've told you all about John.'

'Doctor John?' Nicky asked. 'Is Sherlock here?'

'He is indeed,' John said, holding his hand out to be shaken. 'He's just doing a little job here.'

'Is he going to look after Hannah now? Hannah died!'

'Yes, we heard about it,' John answered. 'I'm very sorry.'

'She died! She wasn't helping Sean at breakfast, and it was because she'd died!'

'Yes, that's right.'

'But now that Sherlock's here, he'll make it all right again.'

John nodded carefully. 'Well, he hopes to work out exactly what happened anyway. We hope that will be helpful.'

'Sherlock gave me his flowers,' Nicky said. 'Do you want to see?'

'Why don't we go back downstairs,' Mrs Hudson said. 'Did you still want to go to work, Nicky?'

'Yes, I have to go to work. I have to show Doctor John my flowers though. Sherlock gave them to me!' Nicky said. 'Come and see. They're downstairs. They're _boy's_ flowers.'

He charged off along the hallway, and John offered his arm to Mrs Hudson to follow him.

'Thank you for coming,' she said. 'Did Inspector Lestrade tell you he'd seen me?'

'He did, and Sherlock felt the need to rush to your defense.'

'He's a silly boy. I'm fine. It's sad to be here today, and some of the kids are all over the place. Nicky seems mostly fine though. He's a bit out of routine, but seems more put out that someone moved his Sherlock Holmes flowers yesterday.'

John smiled at her. 'I'd still like to accompany you to Nicky's workplace, if that's OK.'

'It's not OK. Sherlock needs far more looking after than I do.'

'John!' Nicky called. 'They're in here!'

They went into a day-room where there were tables set up to do some art and craft work. Nicky was standing proudly by a table in the window, on which were the dark, black flowers.

'They're lovely,' John said, hating them all over again.

'They're boy's flowers,' Nicky said again. 'Sherlock gave them to me.'

'They're great,' John agreed. 'I'm sure Sherlock will be very pleased that you're looking after them so well.'

'It's my job. I grow flowers.'

'In the garden?'

'Yes, and at work. I grow flowers with Mike at the garden shop.' He looked up, concerned. 'Am I late?'

'A little bit,' Mrs Hudson said. 'But I've spoken to Mike, and he says you can start later today.'

'Because of Hannah,' Nicky said.

'That's right. He said you didn't have to go in today at all.'

'No, I will,' Nicky said. 'It's my job. You will look after my flowers, won't you?'

'Of course I will.'

'You won't let that Jenny get them, will you?' A thundery scowl appeared on Nicky's face.

'I'll tell her to leave them alone.'

'She was touching them,' Nicky said, starting to get agitated. 'She wasn't being gentle. You have to be gentle with flowers.'

'I know, love. I'll make sure they're safe.'

'Sherlock Holmes gave them to me.'

'I know.' Mrs Hudson soothed. 'Are you ready to go to work now?'

Nicky's bottom lip jutted out in a pout. 'Some of them are already starting to die. You have to be gentle with flowers when they're cut, or they die faster.'

'You've looked after these ones very well,' John said. Nicky looked so miserable he rubbed his back for a while gently. 'They're three days old and they still look very fresh. Sherlock will be pleased.'

'John?' Sherlock called from the doorway. He had that look on his face that suggested both boredom and frustration.

'Yep, I'm just finishing…' He stopped when a firm hand darted out to catch hold of his wrist. Nicky was holding him very tightly, hopping with excitement and holding his breath. 'Sherlock, do you want to come in and meet Nicky? He can't see you for long, 'cause he's got to get ready for work.'

Sherlock looked as though he'd prefer to do just about anything else, but he noted the expressions on both John and Mrs Hudson's faces and he came forward.

'Nicky, is it?'

He held out his hand. Nicky looked at it with wonder before finding the courage to touch it, lightly, and then shake it.

'I like your flowers,' he said. 'Thank you for giving me them.'

Sherlock looked at them as if he were seeing them for the first time. 'Oh yes. Well I'm glad you…' He frowned and leaned towards them. 'May I?' He extracted his hand from Nicky's, and very gently parted two of the blooms to examine the foam oasis beneath. Nicky hissed very quietly, but Sherlock was extremely gentle, and he settled down by John's side. Sherlock drew back. 'There's a new woman here, isn't there? Someone from an agency, Nathan said. Did she take something from your flowers, Nicky?'

'She wasn't gentle! I've tried to be good to them, I promise I have, but she wasn't gentle and she wouldn't let go!'

'It's OK, Nicky,' John said, rubbing his back again. 'Sherlock knows.'

'Yes, Nicky,' Sherlock said. 'I can see you've taken very good care of these flowers.'

'See now?' Mrs Hudson said. 'Sherlock isn't cross with you!'

'No, of course I'm not cross.'

Nicky slowly settled down again.

'Now, what do you think about going to work?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Yes,' Nicky said, forlornly. 'It's my job.'

'I'll take you down there now.' Mrs Hudson said. She slowly led him from the room.

'Nicky,' Sherlock called. He turned. 'Thank you for taking such good care of my flowers. They look very well.'

Nicky smiled. 'I'm good with flowers.'

'Yes you are.' Sherlock nodded and smiled. 'My friend Lestrade here would like to offer you and Mrs Hudson a lift to your job. He'll then drop Mrs Hudson back home.'

Lestrade looked annoyed but only for a second. 'Yes, of course I will. It'd be my pleasure.'

He nodded and led them away, and the sounds of interested questions about real police cars and Sherlock Holmes faded into the distance.

'You have a fan,' John said. 'What's up?'

'Nothing. What did Mycroft want?' holding his hand out for his phone which John gave to him.

'Apparently one of the people here is the son of the Foreign Secretary. He's concerned that the murder this morning might be connected to that.'

'He's wrong. It's a blind.'

'Why?'

'Because somebody took something from Nicky's flowers. Right, we might as well go and see the body.'

'OK then.'

They went back into the entrance hall, where they met Nathan Millhouse again. He was looking around and running a hand through his hair.

'Ah, gentlemen,' he said. 'Was there anything else you needed?'

'Yes,' Sherlock said. 'You mentioned there was an agency temp working here recently. From what agency?'

'Stenning and Porter. She's not here today though. She should be but she's running late.'

'Yes. John, do you have a photograph of Ms Adler on your phone?'

'No. Why would you think I had a picture of Irene Adler on my phone?'

Sherlock looked blankly at him. 'I don't know. If you did, it would save time, that's all. Mr Millhouse, I might be back later to see if you can identify this temp for me. I'll bring a photograph. Don't hold your breath in regards to her turning up today. Goodbye now.'

He turned charged towards the front door.

John nodded at Nathan. 'I guess we'll be seeing you later then. Good luck with the rest of the day, and let us know if there's anything else we can do to help.'

'No, not at all,' Nathan replied. 'I think the only thing now is to get back to as normal as is possible. And you're already doing so much in just helping us. Thank you.'

John nodded again and followed Sherlock.

Sherlock was on the street searching for something on his phone.

'We'll have to contact the agency,' he said as John joined him. 'And we'll probably have to walk to the main road to get a cab.'

'It's a hundred yards away. You'll live.'

'I'm injured. What happened to all your care and concern?'

'I don't know. It sort of started to vanish as I slowly realised you still have a picture of Irene Adler somewhere.'

'Damn. I had hoped that I'd have earned some brownie points by being nice to Nicky.'

'Heh,' John linked his arm with Sherlock's. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine. Looking forward to seeing the corpse.'

'Back to normal then. Good.'


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The Mortuary at Bart's hospital had started to feel a bit like home to John. In a previous life, this would have bothered him a bit. Mortuaries aren't supposed to feel warm and welcoming, but in his current life it was perfectly natural. Sherlock obviously loved this place like a child in a playground, and his eyes danced with wonder at all the mysteries and puzzles to solve, and it was full of lovely toys in the shapes of various pieces of equipment and in other more sinister forms. While John technically felt that the bodies of the recently deceased ought to be shown just a smidgen of respect, he also knew that he loved watching Sherlock as he worked here and that thought generally won out when up against proper notice of the social niceties.

Plus this particular mortuary had Molly in it, and she was always up for a cup of tea and a chat. He was sitting with her now in her little laboratory.

'So, is Greg treating you suitably well?' he asked, and was pleased to see the shy smile spring out.

'He is. Mostly.' She sipped at her tea.

'Mostly?'

'No, I mean completely. It's just… well, you know what it feels like when someone seems to be making too much of an effort.' She glanced at him. 'Well, maybe not.'

John thought about his recent experience and smiled. 'Actually you'd be surprised.'

She laughed. 'I mean, sometimes I think; 'you want to be at work. Why are you here with me now when you want to be at work?' And then I can see him searching for the right thing to say, or trying to decide whether it's acceptable for him to take his socks off when he's in my flat. It makes me nervous, you know?'

'Like you want it to feel normal and natural and sometimes it just really doesn't?'

'Mm. That's it exactly. I won't ask if Sherlock's treating you well, because I know he isn't, and I know that you won't care.'

John grinned. 'I think he is trying though.'

Molly smiled back at him. 'Yeah. That's the thing though. Why do they have to try so hard?'

'I suppose that neither of them has a vast amount of experience with successful, happy relationships. They have to think hard for fear of getting it wrong.'

'Yes. I suppose so.' They both stared at the walls, lost in their own thoughts.

John frowned. 'And of course you and I have masses of experience and get it right all the bloody time.'

Molly giggled. 'Oh yeah.' She pulled out her mobile phone. 'That's it; I'm texting him. We'll go out tonight and have a proper chat about where we think we're going.'

'Bold move,' John said, impressed.

'Yeah. What about you?'

John sighed and put his cup down. 'I'm struggling with how quickly his thoughts went to Irene bloody Adler.'

Molly frowned at him. 'What?'

'He got… it's stupid really, I know it is, and I trust him when he says there was nothing, but…' John shook his head. 'It's nothing. Hello?'

The door opened and Sherlock stuck his head in. 'I can't do this one handed,' he said. The door swung shut again behind him.

'Well,' John said, 'you enjoy your romantic discussiony evening. I'm going to be examining a corpse.'

'Enjoy yourself.'

'I will.' He stood up and followed Sherlock along the corridor and through the double doors to the nice sterile room with the table with the body.

Hannah was a young woman, not particularly thin but not obese either. She had dark brown hair and fairly thick-set features. He instantly imagined her as a capable, practical and cheerful type of woman, and then instantly chastised himself for being fanciful.

He glanced at Sherlock. 'What do you need me to do?'

'I need to examine her hairline. And remind me to tell Molly to get the lights changed back.'

John glanced up at them. 'OK then.'

'They're too bright now. There are times when subtlety is called for.'

'I can't see any difference.'

'Are you going to help me or not?'

'Yes, hairline. Got it.' John pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box and started to gently part Hannah's hair from around her forehead. He stood back slightly so that Sherlock could lean close, unobstructed, and peer through his magnifying glass. It didn't take long for John to recognise that he was quite superfluous after all. He stood there anyway.

'What does she smell of, to you?' Sherlock asked.

'Er,' John sniffed and tried to filter the chemical smells of the room out of his mind. 'Perfume, I think. I can't smell anything particular on her hair.'

'What sort of perfume?'

'Er… John sniffed again. 'I think it might smell expensive?'

Sherlock sighed. 'You really need to pay more attention to my website, John. This is clearly from the Dior _Poisons_ range, if I'm not mistaken, it's _Hypnotic Poison_, though I admit there is quite a margin of error given that I can barely smell anything past the reek of onions.'

John sniffed again. 'I can't smell onions.'

'Of course you can't. It's a wonder you can blunder through the world at all given your ineptitude with any one of your senses. It must be coming in from the kitchens somehow. Something else Ms Hooper would rectify if she had a grain of common sense.'

'Right, good. So she smells of an aptly named perfume. That all?'

'It's Irene Adler's chosen scent, John.'

'Oh.'

John stood quietly and tried not to let his mind run away down the avenues it wanted to go.

'Say it,' Sherlock said quietly, examining Hannah's toes carefully.

'Say what?'

'What you're thinking.'

'I'm not thinking anything at all.'

Sherlock straightened up to look at him. 'You're wondering if I'm obsessing over Irene Adler. Whether there's a reason my mind went so quickly to her over the flowers, the code, the temp and now the perfume. There is a reason; she's involved. She's responsible for a large part of this, and while I can't work out her motives, there's no avoiding the fact that she is involved. That's all.' He glared at John as if he dared him to challenge him.

'OK,' John said. 'You'd know better than anyone, I suppose.' He glared back.

Sherlock ground his teeth, but he also flinched first.

'None of this is my fault, John.'

'I never said it was. What do you want to do now?'

Sherlock sagged. 'I want to go home,' he said. 'I want to get out of this place and go home.'

John frowned. 'Are you OK?'

'No, I'm not. The lights are too bright, and everything stinks, and my ears are ringing again, and I had thought that was gone for good, and my shoulder's aching, and I've inadvertently pissed you off again, and I can't help it.' He stopped talking and clenched his teeth, miserably.

John nodded and checked the time. 'OK, well first off; don't worry about me. It's not your fault, and I'll get over it. Do you want painkillers now or at home?'

'Home. I'm too nauseous for the food you'll insist on right now.'

'OK. Let's go and find a cab.'

He gently guided the drooping detective back along the corridor and up to the main entrance. Sherlock appeared too exhausted to hail a cab so John did it, and he pushed Sherlock into it. They sat quietly again on the way home, Sherlock quiet and thoughtful and John gnawing on his left thumbnail. It started to rain, and the pedestrians movements changed from leisurely walking around and looking at windows to hurrying to bus shelters and shop awnings.

They pulled up at 221B.

'Your nail biting is simultaneously your most irritating and most endearing habit,' Sherlock said quietly.

There was a gentle smile on his face now, though he still looked tired and old.

'You've done to much today,' John replied. 'Let's go in and get you to bed.'

'Your fingers are always at your mouth. I could think of a number of better things to put close to your mouth.'

'Shut up and get out,' John grinned.

Sherlock returned the grin and climbed out of the cab. He stretched with his one good arm and gently stretched his neck around. He seemed slightly soothed by the light rain that was falling. John paid the cabbie and then walked past him to open the door.

'Right,' he said as they went upstairs, 'if there were to be a picture of Irene Adler somewhere about the flat, where might I find it? I'll dig it out ready to take back to Acorns.'

'I don't know. There might be something left on my computer I suppose, or in your scrapbook. Her website was taken down unfortunately. If all else fails, we could ask my brother.' He sank into his armchair, and his chin lowered to rest on his chest.

'That'll be a fun conversation for all concerned,' John said. 'I'll do it if you like. After I've gone through your laptop that is. It ought to be a last resort. Are you ready for a cup of tea?' There was no answer. Sherlock was still in his chair, chin to chest, thinking.

John turned the kettle on. A short while later he put a mug of tea and several rich tea biscuits on the little table next to Sherlock and rolled his eyes when he didn't get an acknowledgement. He sat down at the table with Sherlock's computer in front of him.

'While we're on the subject of irritating habits,' he said. 'This is one of yours. Personally, I think you could be a bit nicer to me right now. The Irene Adler situation is no easier for me to deal with than you. Eat your biscuits.' He shook his head and started opening neatly organised files from the year before.

He hadn't found much in the half hour he had before Lestrade trotted up the stairs and into the living room.

'I just wanted to let you know that Nicky was safely delivered to work, and Mrs Hudson has now been safely delivered to her flat downstairs.'

'Oh, great. Thanks,' John stood up. 'Sorry, I'd entirely forgotten about that. We're grateful though, Deep Thought here and me. Do you want a drink?'

'No, I ought to be getting back.' He followed John into the kitchen.

'Yeah. That drive took some time, didn't it?'

'I may have stopped in the coffee shop so that Mrs Hudson could give me some sage dating advice.'

John grinned at him. 'She does like to do that.'

'I was actually quite glad to hear it. Anything from the Mortuary?'

'Funny how your thoughts go there so quickly. We don't know. Poison was mentioned, though not as a murder weapon but as a perfume.' John sighed. 'Greg, how much do you remember Irene Adler.'

'Remember her? Only as a name that's vaguely connected to you two. Wait, she wasn't the teacher was that Christmas was she? Is that why Sherlock's all upset?'

'Why does everybody assume…' John said, exasperated. 'No, she's not one of mine. She was a case that Sherlock was involved in. You remember that shoot out in Belgravia?'

'I remember the house! That was something else.'

'Yeah.'

'And I remember someone hurling over the back of my car.'

'In his defence, he had just been drugged.'

'So, potentially the person who drugged and beat Sherlock Holmes while taking, what was it, a memory stick…?'

'A camera phone.'

'Yeah, so someone who bested and disarmed him is involved in whatever's going on now. Shit.'

'Mm.'

'I can't imagine it being too comfortable for…'

He broke off as Sherlock shuddered, lurched and threw up down himself. Lestrade leapt back and swore loudly. John didn't waste the time. He charged back across the room and had Sherlock's head in his hands within seconds. He tipped it back slightly so that he could examine Sherlock's eyes. They were vague and confused but he could already see that the brain behind them was working to make sense of the strange sensation, the sour taste in his mouth and the foul substance over his clothes.

'You OK?' John asked gently.

He was answered by a faint frown. Sherlock looked about the room briefly before closing his eyes.

'You OK there, Sherlock?' John asked again. 'Can you open your eyes for me?'

It seemed to be a struggle, but Sherlock did open his eyes.

'John?' he said. The confusion remained, and he seemed to once again be wondering about his whereabouts and the taste and the substance.

John's arm snaked around Sherlock's back and hooked under his armpit. 'Up you come,' he said, and Sherlock's legs obeyed the command.

'I'll call you later,' John called to Lestrade, carefully steering Sherlock towards the sofa.

'Do you want help? Does he need an ambulance?'

'No, I've got this. Can you ask Mrs Hudson to come up on your way past.' He lowered Sherlock down again, giving him his full attention and trusting Greg to just do as he was asked. He heard his footsteps going down the stairs.

'John?' Sherlock said again.

'I'm here. I'm just going to get you some water, OK? No, stay still.' He gently restrained Sherlock from pulling his shirt about. 'I'll sort that in a second.'

He darted to the kitchen for water. When he got back to the sofa, just seconds later, Sherlock had closed his eyes again. John sat on the coffee table and put a hand to Sherlock's face and brushed his thumb across his forehead.

'Sherlock? Are you there?'

Sherlock's eyes opened again with a frown. He looked about the room again, but his eyes were steadier this time, and his movements were more in control.

'John?'

'I'm here. Drink some of this.' He held the glass to Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock took a few sips before grimacing.

'What have you put in that water?' Sherlock asked. 'Did you wash the glass in bleach?'

John sniffed it and put it aside.

'John, what the hell's happening? What's going on?' Sherlock wiped his hand over his face and gagged slightly.

'Your still nauseous,' John said, looking around for anything that he might use to catch vomit. He was on the point of cupping his hands, but Sherlock shook his head.

'No, it's going now. What was that?'

'That was you having a petite mall… an absence seizure, and that was me utterly failing to recognise it. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm really sorry.'

Sherlock just frowned at him. His eyes darted towards the door as Mrs Hudson came in.

'What's happening?' she asked. 'Inspector Lestrade said Sherlock wasn't well again. Oh you poor boy.'

Sherlock bit his lip.

'He's fine now, Mrs Hudson,' John said. 'I don't think we need you after all. Sorry for the disturbance.'

'No, but he's all in a mess, John. You can't leave him there like that! Come on, let's get his shirt off.'

She fussed towards him, and the noise Sherlock made in response was like a cross between a bark and a sob. She backed off again.

'Mrs Hudson, could you pass me a towel or something?' John asked. She hurried away. 'I think this is panic now, Sherlock. Can you calm your breathing down?'

Sherlock shook his head and started to retch again. John snatched a tea-towel from Mrs Hudson so that Sherlock could bring up the water and the last of his breakfast onto it.

'OK now?' he asked again.

Sherlock shook his head and squirmed on the sofa. John tossed the towel to the floor and rubbed Sherlock's arm.

'Right, I want to get you out of that shirt, and I'm going to need to get the sling off and wash it too. Are you OK to sit still here with Mrs Hudson while I do that.'

Sherlock didn't look away from the wall. He blinked fiercely.

John nodded. 'OK then, you know the drill with this. I'll be as gentle as I can.' He looked at Mrs Hudson. 'Could you grab a couple of pillows from the bed?' She left again and he turned back to Sherlock. 'OK now.'

John carefully took the sling off Sherlock's arm. The break was still less than a week old, and though it was healing well and quickly, John knew it must ache badly. Sherlock didn't show any response to this though. He just stayed still, his chin puckered and clearly fighting against sobs that threatened to consume him. John ignored this though. He dropped the sling to the floor and started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, grimacing slightly as he did so.

'OK, can you sit up for a second?' It wasn't really a question, and he slid his hand underneath Sherlock to help him get slightly upright. 'Mind your arm,' he said. 'Hold it still.'

Sherlock nodded now, and did dutifully hold his arm close across his chest. His mouth stayed clamped shut though. John pulled Sherlock's sleeve off his good arm and rolled it around his body to slide it off his bad one. Again, Sherlock didn't react.

'Drink some more of this while you're up,' John said, handing the water back across. Sherlock quietly drank some. 'Has the strange taste gone?'

Sherlock nodded. 'It's fine now.'

'Good. That's good. Right, here's Mrs Hudson. Will you be OK for ten minutes while I wash the sling?' Sherlock nodded. 'Do you want me to run you a bath too?' This got a shake of his head. 'OK, I'll be as quick as I can and then we'll sort you some clothes.'

He took the shirt and towel away too, shoving them in the washing machine on his way past, and then spent a while scrubbing the sling with soap and hot water in the bathroom sink. He avoided looking in the mirror above it.

He felt better when he'd been able to properly change Sherlock properly and replace the sling, and they were sitting together on the sofa, Sherlock with his feet in John's lap. He got the sense that Sherlock didn't feel better, though he gave no outward indication of this either way. John kept glancing at him for signs of life or reaching for his hand to squeeze or rubbing his feet, just so that he could get a sense of how responsive he was. They didn't talk about the seizure. Sherlock didn't talk about anything at all. He just stared mutely at the television, failing to argue with any of John's choices.

In the evening Mrs Hudson brought a bowl of soup for both of them, though Sherlock predictably refused to touch his. He refused even to take his pain medication. He did drink mouthfuls of water without protesting whenever John handed him his glass, so John cut his losses and didn't comment on the food.

They let the darkness fall around them with just the glow of the television and later the lamp that Mrs Hudson put on as she walked past to light the room.

Eventually, very late, just when John's worry was beginning to get the better of him, Sherlock finally spoke.

'John, I can't be in a position where my brain just randomly stops working.'

John looked at him for a long time trying to work out what to say that would hurt Sherlock least. 'No. I know.'

Sherlock slowly licked his top lip. 'Would you mind sleeping in your own room tonight?'

The rain started again, and drops glistened on the window, and Sherlock's words hung in the room. John bit his cheek until he tasted blood. It took a monumental effort not to tell Sherlock that he'd have to keep an eye on him, and that he wanted him close, or even just to ask if he was OK so many times that he'd eventually have to answer 'yes!'

'No, no of course not,' he said eventually with the best smile that he could manage. 'Take as long as you need.'

'Thank you.'

John nodded. He rubbed the feet for a few more minutes, largely to make it appear as though he didn't mind any of this at all, and then he headed to collect his pyjamas from Sherlock's room. Sherlock did a good job of not looking at him as he crossed the room and went upstairs.

John lay in the grey darkness staring at the ceiling and allowing his anger to build. The injustice of the situation started to suffocate him. He'd rather be shot a million more times, he'd rather he were never able to eat again, or lost his legs or his arms or his sight, anything, _anything_ but Sherlock being fearful of his own brain. He occasionally reminded himself to stay steady and calm, and to remind himself that the head trauma was just days ago still, and that it still might just get better all by itself, and that there were several different treatments that could perhaps help, and they hadn't tried any at all yet. And then he allowed the anger to start building again, until it was bubbling and buzzing just under the surface of his skin.

He wanted to find Adler and choke her with his bare hands around her delicate white throat.

The sound of the footsteps coming up the stairs was so faint that he barely heard it. It wasn't until that creaking tenth step that his senses were suddenly trained on the noises from the hallway.

The quiet, steady tread came to a standstill just outside his room. He waited for what seemed like hours for Sherlock to come in. He sat up and rubbed his face.

'Sherlock?' he called, fairly quietly. His voice would only just carry as far as the hallway.

The door opened slowly. Sherlock stood just beyond the threshold.

'Come in,' John said. 'Come here.'

Sherlock came. He crept into John's bed, and John's arms went around him. Sherlock was freezing. He was wearing a dressing gown over his pyjamas, but he shivered anyway. John wrapped his legs around him too, desperate to force some of his own warmth into him. He couldn't see Sherlock's face in the darkness. Just the gleam of his eyes. He kissed his face.

He didn't bother to say that it was OK and all right and that it would all be fine. He just kept holding and stroking until eventually the shivering started to subside.

'John,' Sherlock whispered.

'Yeah, you OK? Do you need anything?'

'No.'

John continued gently stroking.

'I never told you, before I died, when I… you know. I never told you before then how much I loved you. Not even in my phone call. It never stopped bothering me, that I'd let you go without you knowing.'

'It's OK.' John kissed him again. 'It's not relevant anymore. I know, OK, you keep telling me in the best way you're able, and I'd know even if you didn't. Just settle down.'

'OK.'

There was a period of silent darkness.

'Wait,' John said. 'Sherlock, you know, don't you that whatever this is, whatever's going on with you, it won't kill you. You're not dying. I know it's scary because it's your brain, but it won't kill you.'

The silence continued.

'Sherlock?'

'I know John. But I still want you to know, right now, how much…'

'I know, love, I know. Be quiet now.'

John held on to Sherlock in the darkness, listening to the steady breaths, in his head hearing, in Sherlock's clear voice '_it depends what you mean by 'dying'_.' He held on more tightly and continued stroking until Sherlock's breath became shallow and steady and he was certain that his friend was asleep. Shortly after that, he fell asleep too.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

'John…'

John startled and woke up. He looked around the unfamiliar room in the dark. All of the furniture was strangely out of place, and the bed felt strangely soft.

'John?'

'Mm?' John focused and remembered where he was. 'Sherlock? Are you OK?'

'Yes, but your hand is tangled in my hair and I can't move.'

John woke up fully. 'Oh. Sorry.' He detangled his hand, and smoothed the shaggy mane down slightly. 'Are you OK?'

'Yes, I'm still OK. Nothing has changed in the last thirty seconds. I'm sorry I woke you.'

'It's fine.' John rubbed his face a bit and brought himself back to the present. He glanced at Sherlock who, from what John could see through the darkness, now seemed calm and relaxed. He felt that this should be alarming in some way, but all of his instincts were that Sherlock really was calm and relaxed now. He must have finished his filing or something.

He looked back at John with a slight smile playing across his face. 'Of course now we won't have the pleasure of you asking me insane questions while I pretend to sleep.'

John rubbed his face again. 'Of course you were awake.'

The smile turned into a grin. 'I'm surprised you didn't catch me out sooner to be honest. You nearly did with the fishfinger sandwich.'

'What do you mean?'

'It looked for a second like I'd some of my 'are you sure you want to be that careless? thought had shown up on my face.'

John sniggered. 'It did, but I misinterpreted it. Why didn't you say something?'

Sherlock shuffled closer to John. 'I did. I answered all your questions as accurately as possible. It bothers me a bit that you only seem able to talk to me when you think I'm asleep.'

'I don't!'

'Really? Sometimes it feels as though you do. Anyway, I didn't like to give up the half hour of questions. You've ruined it now.'

John snorted. 'I have? You could have gone on pretending you know.'

'Mm. Actually, I wanted a turn.'

John frowned at him. 'Of what? Of asking me questions?'

'Yes.'

'OK. Go ahead. Wait, don't go ahead; I need to pee.'

He pulled himself out of bed and stretched before going downstairs. He'd forgotten how very far away the bathroom was from his own room. By the time he'd finished, he was stupidly awake and wondering about making tea to take up before going back to join Sherlock. As it happened, though, Sherlock had had that thought too and was already in the kitchen with cups and the kettle going.

'Oh. I thought you wanted to do the questioning thing,' John said, feeling slightly disappointed.

'It occurred to me we didn't have to be in bed. You just have to promise me you'll be honest and it should work the same way. Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that I am both hungry and prepared to eat, so I came down to make some toast.'

'OK. Well, that's good. That's… surprising, I'll have to admit, but it's good.'

'Good.'

He stood and watched Sherlock for a while, and then finding himself superfluous, he went through to the living room. He leaned against the window, looking out. The rain was still coming down in miserable sheets, and the streetlights fragmented through the drops.

'It's still dark out. It's going to be an awful day.'

'It might get brighter when the sun rises.'

John frowned. 'What time is it?' He rummaged on the table for his wristwatch. 'Sherlock! It's half past three in the morning!'

'Yes. I didn't actually say that it was morning. You just assumed.'

'You woke me up!'

'Yes. I have questions.' He came through to the living room with a plate full of toast with honey balanced on a cup of tea. 'Yours is in the kitchen. I can't carry everything one handed.'

'It doesn't matter. I can't drink it; I'll never get to sleep again.'

He looked properly at Sherlock in the light of the standing lamp. He realised now that some of the 'calm and relaxed' look had a certain nervous quality to it, as though Sherlock had decided on a plan but wasn't quite confident that it would be accepted by John. A pebble of doubt formed in John's stomach, and he had to remind himself that Sherlock's plans could cover anything from 'why don't we move to Sussex and just keep bees...' to 'if I run this way along the tracks, and you run that way, statistically one of us won't be hit by a train...' to 'I reckon if we both drink two and a half bottles of wine each, the appearance that this is a full dinner party will be much more authentic...' to 'actually, let's do all the shopping today so that we don't have to come out again tomorrow...' each with apparently the same amount of forethought.

He sensed that Sherlock knew this too, and he watched the detective put his cup and plate on the table with the care and attention of a man who was searching for his most winning arguments and trying to play out the debate before it had even begun. He fretted and waited.

'OK,' Sherlock said, finally satisfied that his meal was in its optimum position. 'Are you ready?'

John looked at Sherlock. 'I hope so. Where do you want me?'

'What?' Sherlock seemed genuinely thrown by this.

'If we sit at the table, it'll be like an interview session. If we're in the armchairs, it'll be like you're at a doctor's. Or a psychiatrist's. So I'm going to sit on the sofa, and we're going to try our damnedest to make whatever you come out with seem perfectly normal.'

'You see, this is what I mean,' Sherlock replied. 'Sometimes it seems as though everything you do with me needs to be thought out and analysed. I sometimes wish you could feel be normal with me rather than just trying to make it seem so. You weren't like this before.' He shot out an accusing glance.

'Me?' John said. 'I do that?'

'Yes. You do. I try not to worry too much because you used to do it with your girlfriends too, and at least we have case time when you're relaxed.'

John stared.

'What?' Sherlock asked.

'Nothing. It's fine, don't worry.' He gave a small smile. 'Now you've brought it to my attention, I'll try to be less self-conscious.'

Sherlock grinned. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's fine. So; questions.'

The smile vanished. Sherlock didn't speak for a while. His eyes moved freely, he breathed every now and again, so John was fairly sure that this was normal Sherlock silence, and nothing else.

'You told Lestrade about us,' Sherlock said eventually.

'OK, I wasn't expecting that,' John said, nodding. 'Yes I did.'

Sherlock continued to look at him.

'That wasn't actually a question though,' John pointed out.

'Yes, I know. I just think it needed raising.'

'OK. Are you comfortable with the fact that I told Lestrade.'

'Yes, of course I am. I'm happy that you're confident enough to do so.' Sherlock paused again, and spent the time looking carefully at John. 'I've spent some time thinking about things, and I've decided I don't want to know anything else about these seizures. I want to go back to work now, so I need you to take care of any medical things that might be going on with me. Is this acceptable to you?'

John nodded, slightly confused by the fact that Sherlock needed to ask something so obvious. 'You know I'll do whatever you need.'

'Good.' Sherlock said, clearly relieved. 'You have my permission to make any arrangements that need to be made, and I will attend any appointments only where my presence is strictly necessary. I will take any medication you deem necessary, and you'll dispense it to me by leaving the full dose in a plastic pot in the bathroom. I don't want to know what it is, or what dose you've decided. I will swallow it. Other than that, I don't want to hear about it. I don't want it to creep into conversations, I don't want to be constantly questioned; I just want to get on with the work and leave everything else to you.'

John stared for a while, his heart slowly sinking. 'That might not be quite practical, Sherlock.'

'Then we have to make it practical!' Sherlock snapped. He took a deep breath.

John slowly nodded. 'OK. We'll try to make it practical. But Sherlock, I can't just treat you without your input or knowledge.'

'I'm saying you can. I'm giving you permission. I'll have a solicitor draw up a binding contract if that's what you want.'

'Yes, I know that's what you want to do, and I'll do my best to keep it all away from you, but there will be times when you need to be informed. You like information, remember? And this is your brain, which is like your all time favourite thing. I think it's realistic to suppose that from time to time, you're going to want to know more. So we _will_ talk about it from time to time.'

Sherlock shook his head firmly. 'No. I can accept that something might be happening to the physiology of my brain, but that's enough. I'm happy to keep going through my daily life while you just get on and fix it.'

'Oh God, Sherlock.' John sat back and covered his face.

'You're afraid that you might not be able to fix it, aren't you,' Sherlock said quietly.

'No!' John shook his head emphatically. He then stopped himself and sat forward again. 'OK, I agreed I'd be completely honest with you, so here it is; yes, I'm concerned that I might not be able to fix this. Hell, I don't even know what's causing it at the moment, so the possibility that I can't do anything is looming large on the horizon. I know the tests I want to start with, I know the people I want to talk to, I don't yet know exactly which neurologist that I want to work with, but I know where I'll start looking. But I can't do all of this without you.'

'You can! I trust you!'

'I know, love.' He shook his head again and returned to the table so he could talk quietly to Sherlock. 'Look, I know that you trust me, but this isn't about that. This is about me being a doctor for the past fifteen years, and knowing through all of that that if the patient isn't completely, one hundred per cent aware of what is wrong and what is being done to treat it, then that patient will be stressed, exhausted, and the treatment will take longer and possibly not work at all.'

Sherlock huffed and threw himself back in his chair, dismissively. 'That's ridiculous. You've successfully treated patients who have been brought to you unconscious and you've healed them.'

'Yes, and as soon as they've regained consciousness, I've explained what has happened and what I've done to save them, and what their recovery plan for the future will look like. And when they've got that information, they can deal with it. Some quicker and some slower, but it's always a lot better than them being in the dark.'

Sherlock pouted. 'Antibiotics either work or they don't. They don't work better if someone knows how they're working.'

'Actually they… No, look, I'm not going to get into a deep, philosophical discussion about comparative treatments and the placebo effect and all of that with you. It wouldn't make any difference anyway, because you'd try to convince me that your brain works differently to everyone else's. I'm just going to tell you this, with all the honesty I'm capable of; I can help you, I _will_ help you, I'll do anything in my power to make sure anything that's going on with your brain on a physical level doesn't affect anything you might want to do with it in your daily life. But I can't keep you in the dark. I won't. And I won't make decisions for you unless I'm pretty damned convinced that you're unable to make them for yourself. You have to think about this. I can look after you while you do so, but you have to think about it for yourself.'

Sherlock stayed silent for a while. Eventually he shook his head. 'Fine, then if you won't help me…' He made to get up.

'No,' John's hand shot out and grabbed Sherlock's good wrist. 'Don't try to guilt trip me or manipulate me into doing what you want. Not with this, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't try to pull away from John's grasp, and this relieved John at least. He waited and eventually Sherlock sat down with his bottom lip protruding and a tense, sulky expression on his face.

'This is one of those things where you insist it's for my own good, isn't it,' he muttered.

'Yes,' John agreed. 'Because it is. Now tell me what you want to know about what's going on.'

'I don't want to know any of it.'

'Yes, that's because it's fucking scaring you half to death, Sherlock. It'll keep doing so if you don't just ask me what you need to know. And eat your toast.'

Sherlock picked up a slice but merely fiddled with it. He gazed out the window, clearly trying to just wait John out. John knew his own patience was the greater though, and he didn't need to wait long for Sherlock's natural curiosity to bring him down.

'OK, here's one,' Sherlock said, still looking at his toast. 'will I vomit… if it is the case that I have another seizure, will I vomit again? Could it, in principle happen every time?'

'In principle yes. As to whether you will or not, I don't know.'

'Great. So the point of making me ask you was…?' Sherlock threw his toast back down to the plate.

'Settle down,' John said. 'It's not the most usual response to a seizure, but it isn't unheard of either. There are areas in your brain that can make you throw up if they're messed around, and it would seem that whatever's in your brain that's causing you to seize is indeed messing those bits around. I'm not prepared to guarantee that it'll happen every time though, so it still is an unknown.'

Sherlock nodded. He pulled a piece from his toast and ate it. 'What is the most common effect of seizures?'

'Loss of bladder control.'

Sherlock looked horrified, but John stared him out again. Slowly Sherlock did settle and accept this.

'What else?' John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged. His brain did find another question despite him. 'Is there something specific that's causing it? Could there be something I could just avoid?'

'I don't know that yet either, but you've only had three seizures of differing severity in three different situations. So we need more data. Hopefully we won't get a chance to gather it and this will suddenly all be a thing of the past. It's entirely possible you won't have another one, and you'll be fine.'

'But conversely, this might this go on forever?' Sherlock shot out.

'It might.' John nodded and watched Sherlock carefully. There was no outward reaction on the detective's face.

'And the current rate of, what, three in five days, is that a lot?' Sherlock asked. 'Might that rate go on forever?'

'Again we don't know, and we won't know until we can say for sure what's causing it. If there's still residual weakness from the trauma you experienced, then, as that slowly heals, I'd expect it to get better.'

'OK.' Sherlock appeared to be warming to the subject slightly, and he sat forward and leaned on the table. 'Realistically though, I've had two badass seizures, followed by one absence seizure, or perhaps we could call it a weedy-seizure. Logically that shows them getting better. Or less bad at any rate.'

'Maybe. But they're also just two slightly different events.' John smiled. 'From my point of view, I slightly prefer the badass ones. At least then I can see what's happening and respond to it. I'm a bit worried that in your particular case, I won't pick up on an absence seizure again. This might be one of the things that we have to learn to deal with.'

Sherlock glanced at him. 'In what way?'

'In the way where you need to stop ignoring me quite so often. I'll try not to disturb you often, but if I'm worried, I'm going to need a response.'

'That isn't going to work,' Sherlock dismissed this out of hand and sat back in his chair.

'It might not need to be a verbal response.'

Sherlock frowned, clearly trying to make some sense of this, but then just shaking it into his filing system. 'Now, treatments.'

John reached for his watch again. 'Are you sure you want to keep going with this? At first you said you didn't want to know anything at all, and now I'm beginning to wonder whether you'll ever shut up.'

'It's still my intention not to mention this at all tomorrow. So let's get it all out of the way now.'

John sighed and put his watch back down. 'That's fine, but most of these questions will be better answered by the specialist, and you have to remember you can ask me anything at any time if you just happen to think of something.'

'At any time?'

'Yes. Even at three O'bloody clock in the morning if you really feel the need to, but I reserve the right to be a grumpy bugger due to lack of sleep. OK, treatments.'

Sherlock nodded. 'What are my treatment options?'

'I don't know.'

'John!' Sherlock shook his head and kicked at the floor in displeasure.

'I know! I know they're the three words you least like to hear in the world, but at this point I really don't know. We don't know what's causing the seizures, and so we can't possibly know what might be used to treat it. There are things, of course, that might come into play at some point. There are anti-seizure medications of various types that you can take every day…'

'Fine, I'll take them.'

'But they might not work, and they might not be necessary, and they come with their own side effects that need to be thought about at least. This is one of the many, many things we need to talk to a neurologist about.'

'Fine, ignore that,' Sherlock said, dismissing it and instantly moving on. 'What about surgery?'

'No.'

'No?'

'Well, not 'no',' John said. 'It's not exactly impossible, but I wouldn't go for it unless it really is the last resort. But in this case, in your specific circumstances right now, it would be like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut.'

'If the nut is free, who cares which tool is used?'

'You haven't thought that analogy through yet, have you?' John said. 'Look, there has been research in the past to look at brain surgery for extreme cases. Way back, we're talking in the sixties or so, they used to separate the two lobes of the brain entirely, but that didn't always work, and it caused a whole heap of extra problems instead. I know there was some more recently, God, I can't remember where I heard this now, but there was an area of extreme scaring in the brain causing regular fits, so they cut that area away entirely, but I have to admit that I don't remember where I saw it, and I haven't followed up the research to find what happened to the patient.'

'Why not? You're a doctor for goodness sake!'

'Yes, and in my daily life, I don't often have all the time in the world to renew my subscription to the Lancet!'

'Well you should,' Sherlock stropped. 'You don't want to risk becoming old fashioned and out of date.'

'Thank you, love of my life, I'll take that on board. Anything else?'

Sherlock looked at the rain on the windows for a while. He shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak a couple of times before anything came out. John waited.

'John, is it possible that I've done this to myself?' Sherlock asked very softly, as if he didn't quite want to let the words into the room.

'What? No I don't see how you could have done.'

'I don't mean recently.' Sherlock turned his eyes on him and seemed to be willing him to understand. 'I mean in my past, with the things that I chose to do.'

Realisation dawned on John. 'No. Or at least, I think it's very, very unlikely.' Sherlock didn't look at him. 'It's like you said, if it was connected to drugs and not to the concussion, it would be an awfully big coincidence.'

Sherlock paused again and suddenly all the exhaustion seemed to return to him. 'John, I can't do this,' he said, low and soft. 'I can't simply not know if or when my brain is going to stop. I don't think you understand that.'

'No.' John leaned forward and took hold of Sherlock's hand. 'But, in the interest of being completely honest, Sherlock, you might have to. You might have to cope with it, and therefore you _will_ cope with it. Because I sure as hell can't cope with you just sodding off into the great unknown again.'

Sherlock was very still for a while, and then he breathed out. 'OK. So what do we do next?'

'Well, that part I can take care of by myself,' John said, snapping back to the professional tone. 'I'll make some calls, I'll make some appointments, and all you need to do is come along to them and answer any doctor's questions honestly.'

'I don't want another scan,' Sherlock said quickly.

'Noted.'

'Does that mean you'll make me have another scan?'

John smiled. 'It means we'll discuss it with the neurologist when I've found one.'

'Right,' Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and John felt that perhaps he'd had enough for now.

'Now, are you going to eat your toast and come back to bed?'

'I don't feel better for having discussed this with you, you know.'

'No.' John leaned to give Sherlock's shaggy head a gentle and slightly uncoordinated hug. While he was there, he kissed him. 'And you're also still hungry, so eat your toast, come back to bed, and spend a couple of hours processing and filing or whatever it is that you actually do, and in the morning, you can pretend to sleep while I ask you searching questions.'

Sherlock smiled faintly and looked up at him. 'I remain appalled that 'what's your favourite season' was considered critical information for you.'

John stood and kissed Sherlock again. 'I'm going back to bed.'

* * *

**More action and case next chapter. Promise! Thank you all for your feedback, by the way. It's greatly appreciated.**

**Pip xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

John woke up for the second time that morning. He was aware that he was slightly trapped and vaguely uncomfortable, and he tried to roll over to see what Sherlock was doing.

'Don't move,' Sherlock said. 'I'm busy.'

'Busy with what?' John asked. He rolled anyway and when he was facing the right direction he was treated to an annoyed look from Sherlock.

Papers were scattered on the bed between them, clearly disturbed by John's sudden movement. The folders were there too, along with a large Atlas, which Sherlock seemed to have been using as a makeshift lectern.

'You were being my table,' Sherlock complained.

'I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know.' He glanced over Sherlock and was pleased that he looked perfectly well again. 'Do you want breakfast?'

'I've already had it, remember? What I want now is quiet. I'm nearly there. Or I was, before you so rudely woke up and disturbed me. Oh, and your phone's been beeping. It's annoying; you need to go and sort that out.'

'Right, good.'

John pulled himself out of the bed and went through to the living room. The storm overnight seemed to have blown itself out, and there was now a pale, watery sunshine pouring through the window. It felt like a good day for a jog. He picked up his phone and found four texts of increasing franticness from Lestrade. Though none, he noted, from dinner time onwards, and he gave a small cheer for Molly Hooper. There were two missed calls this morning though, and he called his voicemail.

'Yeah, nothing important,' Greg's voice said. 'Just wondering how things were going. Like I say, I've got nothing important for you, but you said you'd call… I mean, you probably had a lot to do, but you said you'd call, so if you do have a moment... But I haven't got anything important for you, you know, so don't worry.' The message disconnected.

John sighed and called him.

'John?' Lestrade answered. 'Everything OK?'

'Yep, everything's fine. Sherlock had a small seizure yesterday, hence the throwing up thing that you saw, and he's fine now. What have you got for us?'

'It's nothing important.'

'Yeah, I got that. What is it?'

'Another message was faxed to us yesterday. Seemed to be a pressed flower, and a picture of that kid, what's his name. Nick.'

'Nicky, yeah. Can you bring it over?'

'In a bit. Also, Mycroft's people send a bunch of code to go with it and from the shopping centre bombing and Mycroft's been badgering me to get it to Sherlock. It's at the office and I'm not there yet. Are you in later this morning?'

John grabbed his watch from the table. 'It's nearly ten. How are you not at work yet?'

'I got lost on my way to work.'

John's face slid into a small grin. 'You got lost between your home, where you sleep every night and your work, where you go every day. I wonder how that could possibly have happened.'

'It's not what you think. I stayed out with a friend and there are road works between h… _their_ place and the yard, and I tried to circumvent them and…'

'So it's _exactly_ what I was thinking.'

'Traffic's moving now. Got to go.' Lestrade disconnected.

John went happily into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

'Marco!' he called out.

There was a pause, then 'Polo', was called from the bedroom.

John grinned. After a moment's thought, he dialled Mycroft.

'Yes,' Mycroft answered.

'Just letting you know that Sherlock had an absence seizure yesterday. I'm keeping an eye on him, and we'll start looking for a neurologist today.'

'Good. Thank you.'

'OK. Bye then.' He hung up. A second later his phone rang. 'Mycroft?'

'I wanted to make sure you understood that you don't need to restrict your search to the NHS.'

'I did. Thank you.' He hung up again and made himself some tea and some coffee for Sherlock.

He carried it all through to Sherlock. 'I've made you coffee.'

'You called my brother.'

'Yep. You said you didn't want to talk about it, so I did it for you. How's the shoulder? You haven't had any painkillers for a while now. Nearly twenty four hours, thinking about it.'

'Mm. It's still and sore. I don't think I need the strong ones now though.' He yawned. 'Look! I've finished the first one done.' He waved a piece of paper at John. 'The others appear to be a variation on a theme, so I'll have the others done too before long.'

'Good,' John got back into bed and took the first paper from Sherlock. It wasn't particularly thrilling.

_Will be in London by late morning. Eye on target, mind on Target, all sorts of parts of me on Target. Not forgetting Mini-Target of course._

'Oo, I've got a code-name,' he said. 'Haven't had one of those since I was Mop.'

Sherlock looked up. 'You were Mop?'

'Yeah it was an army thing. Occasionally if they thought there'd be a spot of trouble, they'd ask if they could bring a Mop.'

'That's…' Sherlock's eyes flashed. 'That's delightfully macabre!'

'Isn't it just?' He pointed with the paper. 'You're not allowed to call me mop, just so you know. Is there anything else in there that's more interesting?'

'There are references to the big bang.'

'The bomb at the shopping centre?'

'No, since then. Something bigger.'

'Another bomb? One where they don't care how many people die?'

'No, I don't think so. They're talking about a team of killers to take out some people personally.'

'People?'

'Yes. Not sure who yet. Could be the royals, but I'm more inclined to think police, MI5 or politicians. She certainly thinks they can be found in one place, but I'll need to decode more to find out.'

'Why doesn't she just blow them up if they're all in one place?'

Sherlock frowned at him. 'Have you developed a sudden obsession with bombs?'

John grinned and kissed him. 'Right, Lestrade will be over later with more photos and code, and I'm going for a run.'

Sherlock startled. 'What, really?'

John hesitated. 'OK, if you really don't want me to go out, then I'll stay, but if we're thinking in terms of being completely normal, we might as well start now.'

Sherlock chewed on his lip but didn't answer.

John got back into bed with him. 'Do you think it will get easier the longer we leave it?' he asked.

This earned a quite huff.

John moved closer. 'The thing is, I want to get out there before I shower and eat breakfast, and I'm getting hungry. I'll be twenty minutes or so, and you'll be fine, and if you want, I can ask Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on you. Drink your coffee, and I'll get you some ibuprofen.'

Sherlock looked wary, but he nodded. 'Fine. Be quick though.'

'Besides,' John said, kissing him. 'it'll give you a chance to get the next bits done without having noisy distractions and moving tables and the like.'

'It's fine.' Sherlock kissed him back.

John moved closer to prolong the kiss a little. Sherlock put down his pen so that he could use run his hand under John's t-shirt. John moved closer still.

'Wait,' he said pulling away, 'is this some sort of cunning plan to keep me in the flat until any thoughts of running are abolished?'

Sherlock grinned at him. 'That was only ever a pleasing side effect. Seriously, go now, and let Mrs Hudson know you're out. She doesn't need to come up; just to know.'

John smiled and pushed himself away. He quickly pulled on his jogging pants and t-shirt. He skipped down the stairs. After a brief stop at Mrs Hudson's flat, he set out, trotting lightly down the street feeling strangely free and uplifted, and he reflected that perhaps he had needed to have the talk with Sherlock even more than Sherlock had.

He also considered the idea that some of Sherlock's nervousness was just a reflection of his own. If it was going to help for Sherlock to see him warts and all, then he was quite prepared to move up his selfishness up a notch or two. He crossed the road. Perhaps not that much though. He didn't want to scare the poor man to death. He got to the pavement outside the park and broke into a steady jog, turning in through the first gate he came to.

It was late now, certainly later than his usual jogging time, and the park was fairly busy. He found it quite fun to steer himself around the groups of people dawdling along the paths or milling about around fountains. He started to imagine he was actually running in some sort of combat situation with obstacles to be avoided. He pushed out faster and felt the sweat break out on his back and the soothing, cool air gusting up his t-shirt. He grinned. He was tempted to do a whole extra circuit, but a moment felt a moment of guilt that Sherlock might be fretting, so he settled for taking a slightly longer route back across the park.

He was nearly back to where he'd started when he spotted a woman with her two small children. One of them was balancing along a little, narrow bench and the younger one was trying to follow his brother, while the mother chatted on her mobile. The older got to the end and took a flying, grinning jump, and John smiled. The second finally got up onto the wooden plank, stood, wobbled tremendously, and fell off the other side, straight onto his back with a 'whomp'. There was a short pause before the wail started.

John instantly started deciding whether to stop and offer help, but the mother was already off the phone and fussing over him. It was a small drop onto soft ground, and John had seen there was no head contact. The boy was winded and that was all.

He turned the corner and crashed straight into a woman coming in the other direction.

'Oh God, I'm so sorry,' he said. Then; 'Jesus!'

'No, not at all, Doctor Watson,' Irene said. 'Not very close to him really. He doesn't like my type.'

John smiled and steadied his breath. 'Oh, I don't know. From what I remember from Sunday School, he quiet liked the prostitutes.'

Her face tensed, and there was a wash of anger through her eyes. She mastered it in a second, but it was enough time for John to grab her wrist. He was aware he was squeezing it slightly harder than was necessary. She grimaced and stepped closer to him.

'I could just scream, Doctor Watson. Do you really want that sort of fuss right now?'

He squeezed the wrist again. 'You hurt my friend,' he growled.

'Friend?' She laughed. 'I really think you ought to admit that you're a bit more than friends now. John.'

John found he was starting to feel cloudy and distracted. 'I know a couple of people who'd like to have a quick chat with you.'

She smiled bitterly. 'Oh I don't think so, Doctor Watson. Do you?'

John noticed a sudden change in his vision, and a second later registered the sharp pain in his side. He looked down to where a hypodermic needle protruded from hip. It wasn't deeply embedded, but it was enough.

He shook his head to clear his vision and increased the grip on her wrist.

'Now, now, Doctor Watson,' she said. 'I have a little message for you to take to Sherlock. You can tell him I want him. I want him in every which way you can imagine.' She leaned close to him. 'And I'm sorry to tell you, _John_, that I generally get what I want.'

She shook him off easily, and his hold over his own body was rapidly diminishing. He felt a strange warm sensation crawl up his legs, numbing them. He let go of Irene and focussed instead on getting himself just across the path and along to the bench a few metres away. It took a huge amount of focus and energy but he got there and sat down. Now his body was less of an issue he tried to work on keeping his mind clear, but it was damned near impossible.

Eventually, he realised he could just about remember the way home. While he couldn't rely on his body getting there, he at least knew where it was. The next time could think again, it felt as though half the day had gone, but he was standing at the gate out of the park. He was holding onto it for dear life, and it felt as though the whole world was taking part in a swaying, swinging dance, possibly with the moon. He felt sea-sick.

From here, he knew his best bet to get successfully home was to crawl. It wouldn't be dignified though, and he couldn't quite remember how to get from upright to all fours.

The next event his brain emerged for was to view the control for the pedestrian crossing far above his head. He used the pole to slowly pull himself up and noted that this road was swaying too. He pushed the button.

Hours later there was the sound of 'pip pip pip pip…' in a strange, monotone melody. The song also had the sound of car horns blaring. And the album cover was grey with white lines.

He opened his eyes later to find himself propped up against the crossing pole with his arms draped over the control box. He stared, and then pushed the button again.

The next thing he knew he was on the other side of the road, on all fours, crouched over the gutter which someone had been sick into. He shook his head and stopped looking at it. He crawled along to the street corner where he was fairly sure his flat was.

There was suddenly someone there, saying something unintelligible to him. He had no idea who they were. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a friendly warm red awning. There was a convenient drainpipe by his hand, so he ignored the strangely confusing man and used that to pull himself up again. He took a deep breath and wondered why they couldn't hear him calling them with the power of his mind.

The man got increasingly disturbed, and he turned to call across the road for assistance. There was a confused rush of people and strangeness, and John's legs decided that they'd taken quite enough instructions from his addled brain, and they gave up on him again. John sank calmly to the ground while a waitress said over and over 'it's John! What's happened!' and he wondered who John was and what had happened to him.

He opened his eyes to find himself being propelled towards a black door by someone strong and sturdy who smelled faintly of cheese. The knocker was knocked, and John tried to sit down on the doorstep, but was pulled up.

Mrs Hudson was there, and he was so pleased to see her that he nearly said her name.

And Sherlock was there, cross; 'You said you'd only be… what happened? What the hell happened?'

He tried to grab hold of him but some instinct in John pulled his hand away. He opened it to reveal a bright, shining hypodermic needle. Sherlock stared at it and took it gingerly.

John decided that this was as good a time as any to pass out, and he hoped someone would catch him before his chin hit the floor and he bit his tongue off.

He woke up several hours later on the sofa. There was a pillow under his head and a blanket over him.

'Are you awake now?' Sherlock asked.

'Yeah.'

'How are you feeling?'

'I have a headache from hell.'

'Mm. I'll get you some water and pills.'

'I'd sooner have a cup of tea.' John pulled himself up and around so that he was sitting on the chair properly. It took a while for the room to join him in the normal universe with its consistent physical laws, and he blinked through it. 'How are you?' he called to Sherlock in the kitchen.

I'm fine. No problems. I'm very pleased I could prove you wrong.'

'Mm.' John tried to think about this. 'What?'

'I was right; Adler was involved. Your theory that I was obsessing over her was wrong.'

'OK.' He stared at the fireplace. 'What?'

Sherlock grinned and brought him a cup of tea. 'Here, drink this.' He put it down in front of John and pulled his armchair around so he could sit facing him.

'How d'you even know she was there?' John asked. He looked at the cup of tea thinking how much of a challenge lifting and drinking really was when you thought about it.

'You told me she was.'

'Did I?'

'Yes. Though you didn't manage to get her name out successfully, you did refer to her as 'the anti-Christ', 'that bloody woman you like and don't say you don't because what normal man wouldn't',' Sherlock gave him a pained look, 'thanks for that, by the way, and 'that snakey person, you know, the one with the hips'. Through this and various other terms that I would have thought were too coarse for you to use about the gentler sex, I deduced that you'd met Adler.'

John stared at his tea. 'What?'

Sherlock looked annoyed. 'Did you, or did you not meet Irene Alder?'

'I did.'

'Good, so let's just ignore how I knew that, and revel in the fact that I was right, and I'm not obsessing over the woman the way that you suspected.'

'Right. Fine. Good. The gentler sex is wrong though. She's not gentle.'

'Good point.'

John looked at the tea and wondered if he'd be able to thread some of his fingers through the handle and lift it that way. He tried this and was pleased when it worked. He lifted it to his mouth slowly, taking care not to disturb the liquid, and found he was quite adept and getting it to his mouth. He drank a mouthful and shuddered. 'Oh, now that's a good cup of tea.'

Sherlock grinned. 'Good. So what you're saying is that it might take a couple more hours for you to be back to normal.'

'Normal what?'

'Well, while you're still slightly confused, I should tell you that I'm very impressed that you got yourself home safely.'

'What?'

'Remember that soldier thing you do that I said turned me on? It's like that. I've seen the video of me in the same state, and there's no way I could have moved myself by my own volition. You got all the way home from the park. Seriously, it's very, very sexy.'

John drank some more tea. 'What?'

Sherlock grinned again. 'I've done three more chunks of code. Do you want to see?'

'Yeah. Course.' He put his tea back down on the coffee table, settled back down on the pillow, rolled himself into the blanket and went back to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Sherlock looked across to kitchen at John. He was leaning against the worktop next to the kettle reading one of the translated messages. Sherlock had finished them all now, and had laid them carefully out on the kitchen table. The one that John had selected detailed the set up of the bomb in the shopping centre. Sherlock had already committed it to memory; '_I have arranged the shops, the windows and the lighting as required. I don't expect there will be many casualties in the general populous. We must ensure that Target continues to feel special. If mini-target is killed, so be it, but I don't expect there to be more fatalities in this incident._'

As was his habit, John read the words several times to ensure he hadn't missed anything, and Sherlock waited, fighting his impatience down to the bottom of his mind. He wondered how John might feel to know he was considered disposable.

John shifted, sighed and looked across at Sherlock. 'Nice to know they want you alive at least.'

'Yes. But why?'

John shrugged and handed him a cup of fresh tea. 'She told me she wanted you in every way. Perhaps she wants to mate with you.'

The shock of the image made Sherlock spit his tea across the table. He noticed John smirking at the reaction.

'No. It isn't that,' he said, carefully picked up the other papers to shake tea from them.

'It might be though.' John reached for a tea-towel to mop the table. 'You said before she was attracted to you despite herself. Maybe she sees you as good genetic material.'

'I may have been wrong. My instincts in that area aren't fool proof.'

John smiled and pulled another sheet towards him. Above the lines of random codes were words printed in Sherlock's neat handwriting. This one covered the time just after the bombing and contained hearty congratulations all around that the plan had gone off entirely as planned.

'Why didn't she want to kill anyone else?' John asked.

Sherlock thought. 'I'm struggling to imagine her having much regard for human life.' He cocked an eyebrow at John. 'Or, indeed, a maternal instinct. Perhaps it's like she said; she wanted to be sure I'd know it was entirely for me. I wasn't simply a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'But you'd have probably worked that out from the 'Get Sherlock' thing.'

'Well, subtlety's never been her strong point.'

'No.'

John pulled another piece of paper towards him. This one had accompanied the photographs of John looking at Sherlock's injured body in the shopping centre. The writer, and Sherlock was fairly certain it was Adler in this case, was at pains to tell the others how confused John was about Sherlock, and how there was little trust or confidence in their relationship. '_I turn his head, he thinks. Oh my, do I turn that man's head…_'.

John put the paper down and chewed on his lip, and Sherlock felt a strange, warm form of panic growing in the pit of his stomach. He was slowly growing used to this sensation and he'd stopped fighting it.

'What is it?' he asked. 'If this is a relationship thing, I'm probably not going to get it on my own.'

'It's nothing.'

Sherlock felt the force of the rejection, and he turned back to his code. He was surprised that John noticed.

'Sorry,' John said. 'I mean, I'd have preferred that you hadn't heard me discussing you and us and my jealousy with Mrs Hudson, that's all.'

'I didn't hear it.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Even if I had, I wouldn't care. I mean, I would care, but I wouldn't blame you for talking about it. The Adler thing is complicated, we know this.'

'But it's still a bit off, isn't it? Me talking behind your back.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I remember one particularly scintillating evening while you told me, at length, about Christina's habit of talking to her dog as if it were a person. Apparently it's the most irritating thing in the whole world. I assumed that talking about one's partner to one's friends was a normal thing to do in a relationship.'

John looked stunned. 'I didn't think you were listening.'

'Just because I'm not paying attention doesn't mean I'm not listening.'

'Oh.' John frowned. 'Who do you talk to about me?'

Sherlock at the skull on the mantelpiece before he could help himself, and John guffawed.

'Sherlock?'

'Mm?'

'Sometimes I love you more than I realised it was possible to love another human being.'

Sherlock found this baffling, but at the same time, soothing and uplifting. He joined in with the laughter with his deep, throaty chuckle. This seemed to have a pleasing effect, and John strode around the table to seize the detective's head so that he could plant a kiss on it.

'So what now?' he said. 'You've cracked the code, we can see what they're saying and planning, you've informed Greg and by extension Mycroft, so what do you want to do next?'

'I have one or two ideas,' he said, looking at John's trim figure and pleasing face.

'Really?' John grinned. 'What when you're all injured and stuff?'

'I feel much better now, and it seems like an excellent opportunity to test my dexterity with just one hand.'

'It's the middle of the day.'

'You say that's fine, and I trust you.'

John's grin widened. 'OK, now you're talking.' He sat down on another kitchen chair and leaned to kiss Sherlock.

Things were progressing quite nicely when the front door slammed shut and there was a clattering of shoes up the stairs. John rested his head on Sherlock's good shoulder, panting slightly as Lestrade barged in. John's shirt was well and truly crumpled and Sherlock's was fully open, along with his trouser fly. His shirt tails were keeping him more or less decent.

'Guys, have you got… Oh for goodness sake! That one wasn't my fault! You're in the kitchen and it's nine o'clock in the morning.'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, 'but it's a topsy-turvy mixed up world where apparently a man is allowed to have sex with his boyfriend at any time of the day.'

'Plus,' John said, 'you could knock and wait for an answer.'

'I did. You didn't come, so Mrs Hudson answered.'

John lifted his head and frowned at Sherlock. 'I didn't hear.'

'Neither did I.' The ringing in his head was very faint now, just barely noticeable. 'Now that's an interesting phenomenon.' He looked at John who was looking infinitely kissable and focussed on a patch of skin just below his left ear, until John gave him a look, and he remembered Lestrade. 'I mean, can we help you at all?'

'There's been a…' he broke off and looked away. 'Would you like a moment to rearrange yourselves?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he straightened his trousers and shirt and stayed still while John quietly buttoned him. He looked embarrassed, and Sherlock was simultaneously annoyed with Lestrade and grateful to him.

John stood and tucked his shirt in. 'Now, what is it?'

'There's been an incident at that B&Q your man Nicky works at.'

'An incident?' Sherlock asked.

'Yeah, the head of the gardens department was found hung in the store when it was opened up this morning. He was in the greenhouse, and the plants hand been moved to spell out… well, your initials.' He frowned. 'I think they ran out of space for your name.'

Sherlock nodded. 'OK. We'd better go and look then.'

'No, wait a minute,' John said. 'The last time you went where they called you, they blew you up, remember?'

This was indisputable. On the other hand, he really wanted to go. He could see from John's face that he was sympathetic to that.

'How about I go?' John suggested. 'I can take a computer and a phone and talk you through it.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Absolutely not. We know they don't care whether you live or die. At least they want me alive.'

'For now,' John said.

There was worry in his eyes, with a side order of desperation to get out there again. Sherlock allowed himself a smile. 'We'll both go,' he said. 'The options are that we go now and deal with it quickly, or hide from them in the flat forever. If there are any signs of anything that might be dangerous to us, we can retreat. Certainly there's nothing in the code up until now. Whatever Adler's doing, she's doing on her own volition.'

John nodded. 'OK, let's go then.' He straightened up and turned smartly to Lestrade.

'Wait a second,' Lestrade said. 'Are you well enough to come?'

'Me?' John seemed quite affronted. 'If you're talking about yesterday morning, I was over it by yesterday afternoon.'

'Though it took me a while to tell the drug addled babble from the general babble,' Sherlock added, and he grinned when John shot him a look.

'What about you?' Lestrade asked him.

'There's nothing wrong with me!' he snapped.

'Good, well if you're both perfectly well, let's go then.'

Sherlock took the opportunity to quickly check that John was as well as he said. He caught John doing the same in reverse, and he briefly considered getting annoyed, but he just grinned instead. John disappeared to the bedroom for his shoes.

Sherlock regarded Lestrade. Lestrade regarded him back. Lestrade got uncomfortable first though, and he shifted his feet.

'I'm sorry for barging in on you,' he said.

Sherlock wondered what the correct response might be. 'I don't care,' he said. John came back from the bedroom. 'Didn't you bring my shoes?' He asked. This comment also seemed to miss the mark, but as it made John pull his annoyed face, he didn't worry about it too much. John went to get his shoes.

The gardening section at the Camden B&Q was small, catering largely for people who had small back yards or pots on patios rather than those with sprawling garden and acres of lawn. Inside the shop, in the gardening section, were indoor plants of different sizes and varieties. Sherlock looked along them, wincing slightly under the brightness of the lights in here. He noticed that the lights were emitting a low buzzing sound too, though he couldn't see any that were flickering.

He noticed John looking longingly towards the wallpaper and DIY section, and he was relieved when they were steered outside. There was an area here where bags of compost or gravel and paving slabs were kept, along with a variety of concrete sculptures which some people might want to use to beautify their little area of fenced off land. There were tables with outdoor plants here. They'd been arranged into an arrow shape, pointing at the greenhouse.

Sherlock could see through the cloudy old plastic sides that there was a shape suspended from a pipe that ran along the top. He was pleased that it hadn't been moved or disturbed as yet. He went inside with John and Lestrade following him.

He noticed a number of things very quickly. There was the body, strung up from the roof with a leather belt. The polyester trousers on the corpse were slightly loose, so that was where the belt had come from. His eyes were opened and he looked as disturbed as a recently hung person might be expected to look. His hands were calloused, worn and dirty. There was no question that he worked here in the store, and spent his time off doing lots of little DIY jobs around the house. This was a man who loved his work.

There were long trestle tables containing little plant pots with seedlings and some slightly more mature plants. These had been arranged into large letters 'SH' with a quirky exclamation mark at the end. They'd been moved quickly and not neatly, as if they were an afterthought.

He also noticed the smell. There was, as he would expect an earthy green smell of damp compost and new leaves. Over this there was something else; something slightly sour. He couldn't place it, but it put him in mind of tomato ketchup. He noticed the lights were bright in here too, as you might expect in a space where climate control was paramount.

He frowned. Something wasn't right. There was something slightly off with all of these observations.

He looked up at the corpse again, and thought that the lights on the bar he was suspended on weren't just bright. They were glowing. Not the incandescent light you'd expect; they were haloed somehow, and perhaps throbbing. The ringing sound was also back, and he suddenly realised what was off.

He turned and pushed past the others to get out of the greenhouse. As he turned the ground swayed and swirled and little points of bright light appeared all around him.

'John,' he said.

John was already following him, and he looked up at him now, but in slow motion. The vision repeated; John turning to him slowly again and again.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The world had taken on a bright, colourful quality. He was lying on something looking across at a table full of the greenest plants he'd ever seen. Lestrade was standing in front of them with a concerned look on his face. He was aware that John was somewhere close by. The bright green plants seemed to be growing at an alarming rate, so he closed his eyes again.

He opened them to find Lestrade had vanished. John was still there though. He could feel the warm weight of his arm on his chest. He looked around. The world seemed slightly darker now, and the plants were their usual colour and size.

'Are you back?' John asked.

'Yes. I think so.' He tried to sit up but he was gently restrained.

'Give it a minute or two, won't you?'

His head felt heavy and strange, so he happily obeyed. He looked around again. He seemed to be lying on a garden bench. It wasn't long enough to take all of him, but he couldn't quite work out where his legs were. He assumed it would come to him at some point.

John was sitting on the ground just next to him, wearing, inexplicably, just his shirt. Though Sherlock assumed he was probably fully dressed from the waist down. He looked chilly. After further thought, Sherlock realised that the strangely restricting canvass over his chest was John's coat, and the soft but thin cushion under his head was John's jumper.

He decided this was creating a huge disparity in their relationship, and he tried again to get up. This time John shifted so that he could help him.

'Steady,' John said.

Sherlock wasn't sure he needed the warning, but he was grateful for John guiding his legs down and being a firm and stable shoulder to lean against for a moment. He felt both better and worse when he was sitting upright on the bench with John next to him.

'Can you drink some of this?'

John handed him a bottle of water, and he took a couple of mouthfuls before grimacing and handing it back.

'Bleachy again?' John asked.

'No. Sweet and sickly.'

'Take a couple of deep breaths.'

Sherlock wanted to frown at John's sure-fire cure for feelings of nausea, but he was too tired. He looked around and noticed the damp patch on the path at their feet. John caught him looking.

'The good news is that I'm getting better at pointing you,' he said with a half smile. 'I'm wondering if I should start carrying airline sick bags around with me.'

The ground lurched and Sherlock closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. He hated to admit that he did feel slightly better for it. John had his arm around him and the soothing feel of him rubbing his arm helped too.

There was a sound of people, and he opened his eyes again. Lestrade was back leading a team of forensic officers towards the greenhouse. Sherlock noticed their eyes stray towards him as they walked past, and, with a start, Sherlock recognised Anderson's eyes glaring out over a white, sterile mask.

'When did he get back?' he asked.

'Who?'

'It doesn't matter. Can I have more water?'

John passed him the bottle. It tasted more normal this time, and he noted that the feeling of heaviness was also rapidly diminishing. John was watching what was happening in the greenhouse.

'We should probably call Acorns,' he said softly.

'Yes.'

'What about you?' John asked, looking at him. 'Do you think you're OK to get up and come home now?'

'I think so,' Sherlock answered.

John helped him up, but already he was feeling steadier and the ground seemed firm beneath his feet. He looked over to the greenhouse too.

'The biggest problem I have,' he said to John, gently shaking him off, 'is not knowing which of my senses I can trust.' He went back to the greenhouse and looked inside. The light seemed normal now. Not glowing, pulsing or haloed. He nodded, satisfied and sniffed. This made him wrinkle his nose.

'Can I have that water,' he said to John. He was given the bottle and he took a swig from it. This wasn't satisfactory. 'Is there a toilet here?' He strode off to find a worker to ask.

'You OK?' John asked, hurrying after him.

'Yes, fine.' He found saw a sign and led John into the Gents. Here he took another mouthful of water, rinsed his mouth thoroughly and spat it into the basin. He took another mouthful and gargled it before spitting that out too. He looked in the mirror and noticed John watching with an expression of faint disgust. 'You don't have to watch,' he said.

He ducked into one of the stalls and grabbed a handful of toilet paper on which he thoroughly blew his nose.

He sniffed again and noted the smell of bleach, soap and general mustiness.

'That'll have to do,' he said.

He moved towards the door but John stopped him.

'Look, are you actually OK?' he asked. 'Think about it properly before answering.'

Sherlock stopped, frustrated, but he did properly assess himself. 'I'm fine. I have a slight headache, and the buzzing's still there, though much fainter, and I'm more tired than I'd like to be, but I think the impulses in my brain are back to within their usual levels. I would like you to tell me, at this point, when the appointment with the neurologist is.'

'Tomorrow morning at 10:30.'

'Good. Now I'd like to get on and see the crime scene properly, and then I'll let you take me back home.'

John smiled, apparently satisfied by this. 'Fair enough.' He stood aside to let Sherlock leave.

Sherlock returned to the outside yard and the greenhouse. The corpse had been cut down now, and was lying covered on a wheeled stretcher. There was a man fussing tidying a black, plastic blanket over it and he turned around and gasped when he saw Sherlock. It was the man driver from the Private Ambulance, and Sherlock willed him to stay quiet.

'I need one moment, please,' he said. The driver cowered away from the trolley. Sherlock twitched the blanket out of the way and sniffed the corpse. The man smelled of soil and wood, but there was the clear overtones of woman's perfume. His lip curled into a smile.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sherlock's leg twitched and his heal pattered on the floor. His fingers were twitching too, his right hand tapping away at the armrest between his and John's seat, and the other, still bound up across his chest, was worrying away at a loose thread on the bright blue sling.

'I told you to bring a book,' John said.

'It's nearly eleven.'

'Yes, and there are always delays at these clinics, and I told you to bring a book.'

'The time would be passing quicker if I could at least have a cigarette.'

'You had one before we got in the cab, and another on the pavement outside. The last thing you need is more nicotine right now.'

Sherlock sighed loudly.

'Just think about something else for a while,' John said.

'That comment demonstrates the profound lack of understanding you have about the way my brain works.'

John put his book down. 'So, how did she kill him then? Adler's what, can't be much more than nine stone, and that bloke was tall, strong and probably weighed double that. So how did she kill him?'

'He did not weigh eighteen stone.'

'Well he weighed considerably more than her.'

Sherlock's eyes twitched away in annoyance. It was only for a second though, before the need to explain overcame him.

'Well, you know what her interests are. The promise of sex can have a intense effect on some people…'

'Can it really?'

'So I imagine that a great deal of it was expressed to him as some sort of sex game in which he was a willing participant for certainly the early parts of it. Did you notice his fly was open?'

'No.'

'No, you wouldn't. I can assume she opened it at some point when he was beginning to suspect something was awry. She, among all people, is likely to know the precise point at which experimentation becomes fatal, in that area at least. The rest is all pulleys and counterweights.' He sniffed. 'And we know that the encounter left her more flustered and shorter of time than she had hoped. The lettering on my initials was really quite shoddy.'

John raised his eyebrows at this.

'What?' Sherlock squirmed. 'If you think that my vanity has been offended then you're utterly wrong. It's a distraction anyhow. I don't even know why she did it when the rest of the group are more focussed on the parliament attack.'

'So it's definitely parliament?'

'Yes. Some thinly veiled references have come up. She wants to be focussed though. She wants everyone to be clear on who the individual targets are.'

'OK.'

Sherlock started twitching again. 'Will this man ever be ready?'

John grinned. He leaned close to Sherlock's ear. 'I _told_ you to bring a book.'

Sherlock sighed again and John took his hand. He looked around the waiting room. It was standard NHS fare; battered old chairs covered in fake leather. Posters on the walls raising awareness of healthy diets and a smoke free life, and, due to the nature of this clinic, how to spot the signs of someone having seizures or strokes, and what to do in these situations. There was also a bright red table with smaller, brightly coloured chairs, and a box full of toys. Sherlock had stared at it in horror when he'd first come in, but thankfully there were no small occupants as yet.

Various other people were called in to see various doctors and prepared for various tests and he and Sherlock were left alone.

'Why him though?' he asked Sherlock when the twitching and shuddering had reached an alarming level. 'I mean, it's clearly not random, but I could think of a good twenty or thirty targets who might be more likely.'

'Mm. The boss of an acquaintance of my landlady. It does come across as more random than I'd expect from her. Like I say, the whole event seems to have been quite rushed and flustered.'

'Maybe she had expected, or hoped for, Nicky.'

'The thought had occurred. Suddenly the flowers don't feel like such a generous gift.'

John frowned. 'But it's hardly…'

'Sherlock Holmes?' a cheerful receptionist called into the room. Sherlock and John stood. 'Doctor Fforde is ready for you now. You can down the hallway to room three. It's on the left.' She disappeared again.

'Thank goodness for her clear directions,' Sherlock muttered. 'We'd have never found room three otherwise.'

'Settle down.'

John knocked on the door and opened it to a small office containing a desk, two patient chair, a slightly crooked bookshelf and a smallish, energetic looking doctor with thick glasses and thinning hair. He stood to shake their hands.

'Sherlock Holmes, I presume?'

'Good deduction,' Sherlock said sourly.

'And Doctor Watson?'

'It's just John.' They all sat down. 'Thanks for seeing us at such short notice.'

'It's fine,' he said waving this off. 'For the amount of favours I owe Mike, this is a fairly easy one to pay.'

'He's a good man,' John said.

'Yes, he is. Now, Doctor Hooper sent up the file she has from Hammersmith.' He opened it, frowned at the first page and closed it again. 'It might be helpful if I could take a more detailed history though. Is that fine with you?'

'It's fine as long as you don't expect me to answer any questions,' Sherlock answered.

This flustered Doctor Fforde slightly, and he looked to John, who smiled at him.

'I don't know whether Mike warned you about Sherlock,' he said, and the charming blush that spread across Doctor Fforde's face suggested he had. 'I'm able to give you most of the history, both long term and short, while Sherlock sits and sulks in his chair like a petulant child.'

Doctor Fforde shifted uncomfortably. 'Yes,' he said slowly. 'For my own conscience though, I just need to check, are you comfortable with me treating you, Mr Holmes?'

'Of course I am. Do whatever you have to do. I just don't want to hear about it, that's all.'

John smiled broadly again. 'Like I say, thank you for seeing us. And at such short notice.'

Doctor Fforde nodded again. 'OK. Right, well, let's do this then.' He pulled a form towards him. 'Can I ask how much you drink on average a week?'

'Not much,' John answered. 'One or two units on average. Sometimes more, sometimes less.'

'Do you smoke?'

'Yes he does.'

'Not that much,' Sherlock put in.

'Far more than is necessary,' John said, still smiling.

'Right. Is there any family history of neurological problems.'

'He had an fraternal great-uncle who had childhood epilepsy, they think following a bad fall, but he grew out of it.'

'Did I?' Sherlock asked.

'According to Mycroft you did. There's also a maternal aunt who had 'episodes' as the family put it, which I think, from the descriptions, were fainting attacks. She was never diagnosed with epilepsy. There are no other problems that we know of.'

'How long was the conversation you had with my brother?' Sherlock asked.

'I did my research,' John replied.

'Right, good.' Doctor Fforde said. 'And have there been any other incidents where Sherlock's brain might have shown unusual activity, either as a child or an adult?'

Sherlock smirked.

'No,' John said. 'Not even slightly.' He ignored Sherlock's glare.

'OK, and tell me about these recent seizures. There have been three, yes? Two grande mal and one petite mal.'

'We prefer the terms badass and weedy,' Sherlock said.

'There was another grande mal one yesterday.' John said. 'Same sort of thing, a minute or so of the initial seizing, then a period of half an hour of absence or confusion. The good news is that Sherlock is getting better at identifying when there's likely to be one.'

Sherlock frowned at him. 'Is that pertinent?'

'It's worth knowing,' Doctor Fforde replied. 'What are you noticing? Sights, sounds?'

'Heightened lights, ringing in my ears, and odours.'

Doctor Fforde nodded. 'Has there been any loss of bladder or bowel control?'

'No, none,' John said.

'They make me vomit though,' Sherlock said.

'Good, thank you,' Doctor Fforde said. 'And the situations that these have occurred in?'

'The first two grande mal…'

'Badass,' Sherlock put in.

'… were within twenty four hours of the head trauma, and he was lying on his back at the time. The petite…, the _weedy_ one and the most recent badass one were both in situations where Sherlock was either at, or had recently been at work.'

Sherlock's head popped up to stare at him. 'That's what you're suggesting?' he asked furiously. 'That's the link that you can see? That I was at work? That's not a link, and it's not a pattern if it's just two anyway. I don't accept that! Hell, there was hideous strip lighting at both locations; maybe _that's_ the trigger.'

'There might not be any sort of trigger,' Doctor Fforde suggested. 'There can be triggers, lights being a prime one, particularly strobe or flashing lights, but there can be other things too, such as stress, climate changes, sex…'

'Sex!' Sherlock shouted.

'It's quite unusual,' Doctor Fforde said, 'and like I say there isn't always a trigger. In cases such as yours where the head trauma seems to be causing the problem and it's quite recent, then there's no point looking for external triggers until that trauma is resolved. Now, this scan…' He opened the file again and looked at a series of black and white pictures. 'The scan shows the area of concussion quite clearly, here,' he turned one of the pictures around and pointed out the darker area. 'The problem is, it's the only thing that it shows particularly clearly. It's not a particularly good print out of not a particularly good scan.'

'I don't want another scan,' Sherlock said quickly.

'But he'll basically do as he's told,' John said.

Sherlock frowned. 'What, in all the years we've known each other, leads you to that conclusion?'

'If you need a scan, you need a scan,' John said. Sherlock begged him with his eyes. 'Only if it's important, I said.' He turned back to Doctor Fforde. 'What do you think?'

'I'd _like_ a scan, but it might not be critical at this point. I'd like to do an EEG first.'

'Oh, OK,' John said, brightening.

'What's an EEG?' Sherlock asked.

'Different test,' John replied. 'You're not in a machine. There are lights.' He smiled. 'You'll like it, honest.'

Sherlock snarled.

'That's the spirit,' John said. 'What about medication?'

Doctor Fforde nodded. 'I'm not going to prescribe any regular medication until after the EEG.'

'What?' Sherlock started. 'What's the point of that? John, you promised me this doctor was good! That's the only reason I'm here!'

'He's the best in the field, Sherlock, and if he says no medication, then that's the best thing.'

Doctor Fforde flushed. 'Thank you. Mr Holmes, the thing with the regular anti seizure medication is that it does effect the brain chemistry. I'm not prepared to do that until we know for sure that your brain won't sort itself out on its own. At this point I'm prepared to say you've had seizures, but I'm not prepared to say you have epilepsy. I don't want to alter your brain chemistry to treat an illness you might not even have.'

'Sherlock, it's a good thing,' John said, rubbing the top of Sherlock's back. 'Look at me a minute.' There was a wait and a mental struggle while Sherlock decided whether or not he would look at his beloved. 'A few days ago you were terrified by the thought that you might have epilepsy, and it might be something you're dealing with for life, remember? What Doctor Fforde is suggesting is that might not be the case. This might still be something that will just settle down and go away on its own. OK?'

There was another struggle before Sherlock nodded. 'I hate not knowing,' he muttered.

'I know you do. I know.' John turned back to Doctor Fforde. 'How long will we have to wait for the EEG?'

'I've tentatively booked a session on Tuesday of next week. Does that work for you?'

'We can make it work for us. Thank you.'

'Good. I suspect this advise will go unheeded, but my suggestion in the meantime is that you try to rest for a while, Mr Holmes.'

'You can call him Sherlock,' John said.

'No he can't,' Sherlock stropped. 'And I'm not going to rest. I _need_ to work.'

John sighed at Doctor Fforde. 'Somewhere, buried beneath the arrogance and pique and the fact that he's basically bloody terrified, he is grateful for your help with this. I promise.'

'It's fine,' Doctor Fforde said. 'I am largely sympathetic to this whole thing being a pain in the neck, and it's always shocking at first. The thing is, I do have people under my care who have been under my care since they were tiny babies, and they're now leading very full and happy lives. The individual things that happen to exist in their individual brains don't have any major effects on them at all.'

'They're not all like that though,' Sherlock snapped.

'No, they're not,' Doctor Fforde said frankly. 'I've got people here who will never be able to lead a life that you might describe as 'normal'. They never have and they never will. You're not in that category, Mr Holmes. I honestly suspect that I'll discharge you from my care entirely in about six months time, and you'll never look back. Every instinct I have suggests that will be the case. The second most likely scenario is that we can manage any condition you might have when we've carefully assessed it and have proscribed the right treatments.' He smiled. 'I wonder if it would help you to occasionally remember the people who will still be coming to me year after year as their brains slowly pack up entirely, while you're out there in the world, living your life.'

Sherlock pouted but said nothing.

'That tack doesn't always work with him,' John said. 'Though I appreciate you saying it. And I'm pleased to hear about the six month projection.'

Doctor Fforde smiled again. 'Well, I'm not prepared to guarantee that at this point, certainly not with a scan of this quality and prior to an EEG. But it's where my instincts are. Now, the last thing to think about is the time between now and Tuesday. There is still the ongoing risk that Sherlock will sieze again.'

'Right,' John said.

'Now, all of the Grande Mal, excuse me, _badass_ seizures have been short in duration, is that right?'

'Yes. The last one was less than a minute.'

'The time after that is quite long though,' Sherlock said. 'It seems to take hours for all of my systems to come back on line following them.'

'That's not a particularly dangerous time though as long as you're with someone.'

'I'm happy enough to stick around with him,' John said.

'You went for a run,' Sherlock said pointedly.

'I would like to give you some diazepam for in case there's a longer seizure,' Doctor Fforde said. 'It will only be for emergency use though.'

'Nothing shorter than three minutes,' John said.

'Yes, good. It's in suppository form…' Sherlock's head popped up at this, 'but I can assume you're trained to give it.'

'Wait a second,' John said, discomforted, 'of course I'm trained to give a suppository, but I'm also trained to give an injection. Can't I have a hypodermic of Lorazepam?'

Doctor Fforde shook his head. 'Not outside of a hospital.'

'I want the suppository,' Sherlock said, grinning at John.

'But I'm a _doctor_,' John said.

'Yes and as such, you understand why Lorazepam can't be handed out.'

'I want the suppository,' Sherlock said, his eyes dancing.

'Be quiet a second,' John said. 'Doctor Fforde…'

'It's Adam.'

'Doctor Fforde, you know as well as I do that I can give an injection perfectly safely and in line with hospital procedures.'

'I want the suppository,' Sherlock said.

'The patient would prefer the suppository,' Doctor Fforde pointed out.

'Yes, and previously the patient has suggested cutting a section of his brain out as a reasonable treatment. Until five minutes ago, the patient was determined to take no role in his treatment at all, and his new interest isn't to do with his condition, but is related to him having an intense and sudden obsession with me into inserting things up his bum!'

'John!' Sherlock said in tones of mock distress.

John blushed but went quiet. His mood was not improved by Sherlock shaking with silent laughter at him.

'There's a very good chance that you won't need to give him anything at all,' Doctor Fforde said. 'it's rare that emergency treatment has to be administered. Perhaps, after Tuesday or if there is a situation where you need to administer, perhaps we can reassess then. In the meantime, one dose of diazepam in suppository form, and if you have to use it, I expect you to present here as an inpatient anyway.'

He tapped a few keys on his computer and a prescription popped out of his computer. He handed it to John with an air of finality. John glowered as he took it, but he folded it up and put it into his pocket. Sherlock's hand stole into his and squeezed encouragingly. John put his temper away.

'Right, good,' he said. 'Is there anything else you need from us today?'

'No, I'm happy to leave it at that until Tuesday at 11:30. Oh, I should warn you that sometimes these things run on. I do my best to avoid it, but sometimes these things can't be helped. Anyhow, it might be worth while bringing a book or something along.'

'Yes. Thank you,' John said. 'Adam.' He stood up and put his hand out to be shaken again. Adam looked relieved.

Sherlock stood too. 'Yes, thank you. We'd better go and get that prescription filled, John.' He strode out of the door.

John rolled his eyes and gave Adam one last nod of solidarity. Adam started tidying away Sherlock's file.

The walked quietly together out onto the street, where Sherlock gave John a grin. 'I suppose you want talk about my intense and sudden obsession with me into inserting things into my bum, don't you.'

John shrugged. 'No, not really.'

'Then should we talk about your sudden and intense revulsion about doing so?' Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

'No! God!' John said shocked. 'No, it's not that. It's not that at all.'

'Then what is it?'

'It's your bum…' John noticed people walking past and he lowered his voice. 'Your bum…' he said quietly.

'Yes…?' Sherlock prompted.

John sighed. 'I'm not sure I can explain it right now. Are you going to have a cigarette before we get in a cab?'

'Mm.' Sherlock pulled the pack from his pocket.

John sighed, allowed himself a few seconds to think about Sherlock's bottom, and then he turned his phone back on while he was waiting. It flashed up with a voicemail alert and he called it.

'John…' Mrs Hudson's voice sounding shaken and tearful sounded down the phone and he frowned. 'I know you're busy, and…' there was a sob, 'of course don't interrupt Sherlock's thing but…' there were more tears. 'Please can you come straight home after? There's been…' she tried to calm her voice again. 'Please come home,' she whispered.

John hit 'replay' and held the phone to Sherlock's ear. Before the first three seconds had gone by Sherlock had thrown his newly lit cigarette down to the pavement and was yelling for a taxi.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Sherlock shot out of the cab and across the pavement. The front door was already open, and he disappeared from view, calling for Mrs Hudson, while John threw several notes at the driver, hoping that there was enough to cover the fare. He dashed in through the door after Sherlock who was just emerging from Mrs Hudson's flat.

'Mrs Hudson!' he yelled.

'I'm up here, dears,' she called from their flat.

John pelted up the stairs with Sherlock on his heels. He was relieved to find Mrs Hudson standing in the hallway outside their flat, looking red-eyed and shaken but pretty much intact.

'What happened?' he asked. 'Are you OK?'

'Of course I'm OK, and I'm sorry I left that blasted message on your phone. I wanted to delete it, but I didn't know how.'

Tears welled in her eyes, and John pulled her into his arms. 'It's OK, it doesn't matter.'

'But the mess…' she sobbed.

John didn't let her go, but he looked up at Sherlock who frowned and pushed gently past them and into their flat. John saw the mess through the open door.

'I'm sorry,' Mrs Hudson said. 'I tried to tidy up a bit but I didn't get very far...'

'It's OK,' John said. He released her and went into the flat. Their possessions were largely on the floor, cushions pulled from chairs, books from shelves, both computers were open and on the floor.

'I'm sorry,' Mrs Hudson said again, following them in. 'I tried to stop her, but I got here too late.'

'Her?' John said.

Sherlock strode over to Mrs Hudson. 'Did she hurt you? Did she lay one finger on you?'

'She pushed me down…'

'Damn it!' John said, instantly checking her. 'Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?'

'No, I'm fine,' she said, pushing him away. 'And I have to admit I slapped her first.' John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, impressed. 'Well she said such awful things!' Mrs Hudson said, and she started to cry again.

'OK, let's stop this now,' John said. 'Let's go back downstairs and I'm going to make you a cup of tea, I want you to honestly tell me if she hurt you, and then you're going to relax for the rest of the evening. Have you called the police?'

'No, not yet. I'm sorry, John, I don't think I was thinking clearly. And I was a bit worried about the slap.'

'The police won't press charges; Sherlock would kill them.' He smiled at Sherlock who was looking stunned and furious. He looked back to Mrs Hudson 'Come on; downstairs.'

'But the mess…'

'We can sort out the mess later. Come on.'

He took her downstairs. She was rapidly calming down, though still wringing her hands occasionally. He took her into the kitchen and efficiently sorted out the kettle and cups and a teapot.

'Did you want some cake?' he asked, spying a Victoria sponge on the worktop.

'No, I'm all right, love,' she said, looking miserable. 'I'm so sorry to have dragged you back like that.'

'You didn't. We'd finished, and we had nowhere else to go.'

'How did it go with the other doctor?' John smiled at her tone. She had suggested, several times, that she didn't quite understand why John didn't treat Sherlock himself. She accepted that there were many medical specialties, but hadn't quite accepted that John wasn't the best at all of them. 'What did he say about Sherlock?'

'He'd like to run some more tests, but he's not that worried.'

'Well that's good, I suppose.'

'It is good. He wants to be thorough in checking which suits me. Himself didn't exactly get on with him. He's been told to rest.'

'Oh dear.'

'Yes. Well, there's rest and there's rest.' He poured water into the teapot. When he turned around Mrs Hudson was crying again. 'Hey now,' he said, giving her something of another hug. 'It's OK. It really is going to be OK.'

'No but he's been told to rest, and now he's all stressed because of this!'

'No, he's not,' John said firmly, rubbing her shoulder. 'Sherlock eats this sort of thing for breakfast. This isn't stress to him, remember? What's stress to him is having nothing to think about and nothing to do. Plus, most of the tidying will be done by me.' He smiled at her. 'Now, are you OK down here for a minute? I'm going to take one of these teas up to Sherlock.'

'Of course I am. Take yours up too. I'm fine here.'

'OK then. You'll come up if you start feeling edgy?'

She smiled. 'I don't believe I've ever been edgy a day in my life.'

John smiled back. 'Fair enough. Come up and have lunch with us though.'

She nodded and John walked away. He returned promptly. 'Though actually, could we eat down here? Our place might take a bit of work to get presentable.'

'Of course, dear.'

'Thank you.' He left again, only to return a second later. 'In fact, do you think it might be possible to put a couple of sandwiches together? I wouldn't ask but our kitchen…'

Mrs Hudson grinned at him. 'I'll have something ready at one.'

'Thank you. You're a saint.' He left.

When he got upstairs, he found Sherlock had put one of cushions back on the sofa and he was sitting at it, staring blankly at the rest of the room.

'What do you think she was looking for?' he asked. There was silence. John frowned. 'Marco.'

'Polo,' Sherlock murmured.

John rolled his eyes. He put Sherlock's tea in front of him and went through to the kitchen. The cupboards there had also been pulled apart. John picked the bottom of his RAMC mug from the floor and the top and the handle from the sink, and he cursed.

'Don't tidy too much,' Sherlock called. 'I haven't looked in there yet.'

John rolled his eyes again and left the kitchen to have a look in the bedroom. Everything had been pulled from the shelves and the wardrobe doors were open and the clothes strewn about. John focused on the bed though. The bedclothes were on the floor and the sheet and mattress had been slashed open with a deep knife. For some reason the sight of this bothered John immensely and he leaned against the wall for a while.

After several minutes had gone by, Sherlock walked into the hallway. 'Marco,' he said.

'What?'

'You'd gone quiet.'

'Oh. Well I haven't developed a habit for losing control of my consciousness.' He looked back at the bed.

Sherlock came and looked with him. He frowned and looked between John and the bed a few times, frowned further, and then his face cleared.

'It's connected to my bottom,' he said.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You; you've developed a strange sort of territorial thing. The bed, my bottom; these things you have developed an attachment to that goes beyond their primary function. Interesting.'

'No it's bloody not!' John said.

'It is to me.'

'Well stop analysing all of the bloody romance out of our relationship. It's annoying.'

'Sorry.' Sherlock looked at him. 'It's just a bed. Do you want to check your room?'

'I better had.' He walked past Sherlock and up the stairs. If Adler had made it as far as this, he couldn't see any sign. He didn't know what to make of this, so he went downstairs again. 'My bedroom's fine. So we could always move the mattress down to your room for now, and move the bed itself later.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Why don't we just sleep in your room?'

John opened and closed his mouth a few times but no answer conveniently fell out of it.

'We'd better start tidying,' Sherlock said. 'If we don't, Mrs Hudson will be tempted to come and do it for us.'

'No,' John said, 'let's go and eat and check on Mrs Hudson. We can sort this stuff out later.'

Mrs Hudson seemed pretty much back to normal, and she happily made them extra sandwiches and tea. The Victoria sponge was cut up too, and they'd made considerable headway into it when there was a ring on the doorbell, and Mrs Hudson startled and went tense again.

'I'll go,' John said, giving her shoulder a firm rub.

Lestrade was at the door.

'Oh, did Mrs Hudson call you?' John asked.

'Mrs Hudson? No. I came to give these to Sherlock.' He held out another black file. 'Why would Mrs Hudson have called me?'

John sighed. 'Well, now you're here, you'd better come in.'

He led Lestrade into Mrs Hudson's flat. As soon as she saw him, Mrs Hudson started fretting and getting weepy again. Sherlock shifted in his seat as if he were daring Lestrade to do or say anything to make her feel worse.

'What's going on?' Lestrade asked.

'Mrs Hudson interrupted an intruder here,' John told him. 'Couple of hours ago when Sherlock and I were out.'

'Good God!' Lestrade said, all concern. 'Why didn't you call the police! You could have called me directly; you've got my number. Are you hurt? What did he do to you?'

'She,' Sherlock said, still staring Lestrade down.

'It's nothing,' Mrs Hudson said. 'It's just…'

'During the event, Mrs Hudson attempted to restrain the intruder,' John said. 'She was pushed down.'

'God, are you hurt?' Lestrade asked again.

'I'm fine, honestly,' she replied. 'And John's being too kind with his words there. I hit her.'

'Bloody well done!' Lestrade said.

She gave him a watery smile and shook her head. 'It's assault. I know it is.'

'Sod that,' Lestrade answered. 'You were defending your property. Did you injure her at all?'

Mrs Hudson shook her head. 'Only her pride, I think. It's still technically a crime though.'

Lestrade shook his head. 'No, Mrs Hudson. It's this Adler woman we're talking about, isn't it? Thank God for that; I'm not sure I could cope with any more disgruntled exes of Sherlock Holmes…'

'She's not an ex,' John said rather too quickly.

Lestrade shrugged. 'What she is, is someone who's wanted for questioning for two murder charges, plus now breaking and entering and whatever conspiracy thing Sherlock and Mycroft are working on. Nobody, and I mean nobody at all, is going to look at charging you with assault, Mrs Hudson. I'm just relieved that you weren't more hurt than you are.'

'I'm just a bit shocked,' Mrs Hudson said.

'We should probably get on with catching her then,' Sherlock said, sitting forward and leaning on the table, his eyes glinting. 'The conspiracy thing will probably be her next move. It's just a matter of when.'

'You were told to rest, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson said quietly.

Sherlock flashed a wicked grin. 'Oh this is much better than a rest. This is pure fun!' He slid the black folder closer to him and flicked it open.

John cleared his throat. 'Greg, while you're here, would you mind helping me move a mattress? Sherlock, who's been fretting to take his sling off for the past three days is now refusing to move it at all.'

'Yeah, no problem.'

'Don't talk in the flat,' Sherlock said.

They both looked at him for further explanations, but none were forthcoming. They left and went back upstairs.

Lestrade gave a low whistle when he saw the state of the living room.

'Well, she's really done a number here, hasn't she?'

'Yep. We'll start tidying in a bit. Well, I will anyway.' He led Lestrade through to the bedroom and started to pull the mattress from the bed.

'Hang on a tick,' Lestrade said. He took out his phone and took a photograph of it. He took further photos of the other corners before smiling at John. 'It's been a long while since I needed to work a break in, but I think I can probably remember some things. Right, let's get this off.'

They tugged the mattress away and shuffled it out into the hallway, where they stood panting and sweating for a while. Pulling the second one from John's bed was a much easier task.

'I knew he'd pinched the bed with the better mattress,' John grumbled. 'Expertly manipulated that; moving in an hour before I got a chance to stake my claim.'

'Don't suppose it really matters now,' Lestrade said.

'No. I guess not.'

Lestrade stayed to take more photographs of the other areas of disarray before nodding his leave at John. They went downstairs together and stood at the front door.

'I'll come back later to take a statement from Mrs Hudson and to sort out an itinerary. If the two of you could make a list of everything that's damaged or stolen while you're tidying up, that would be of help to me later.

'Yep, no problem. I'll see you later.'

'Yeah. And I'm sure he'll let me know if he makes any headway with the other thing.'

'Well he won't be able to keep it to himself.'

John nodded goodbye and closed the door. He went back through to Sherlock who was working at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table, slotting neat letters above the chunks of code.

'Right, well, that's done,' John said. 'So we'd better go and get started on the tidying.' Sherlock didn't move. 'Both of us. Together.'

'I've been ordered to rest, remember?'

'And you took issue with that, remember?'

Sherlock put his pen down and sighed. 'I need to send a text.'

'OK. Well you do that, and then come upstairs and help me tidy up.'

'I suppose if it'll make you quiet.'

They returned to the flat and stood in the doorway for a second while they thought about the task in hand.

'Well, it won't happen just from us staring,' John said, and he started gathering cushions and scattered papers from the floor.

After a while he noticed that most things were in disarray, but generally unhurt. The books just needed to be put on the shelves. There were apples on the floor, and the fruit bowl was upturned, but it just needed replacing. Even Sherlock's computer was still in one piece and in full working order, as he found out by sitting down and working online for a good half hour before John started throwing things at him by way of reminding him there was still work to be done. Sherlock pointed out that he only had one arm, but John ignored this. His laptop had a broken screen and a whole in the keyboard that looked as though it had been made by a stiletto heel, and he wasn't in the mood to be cutting anyone much slack.

They made a vague itinerary of the things that were broken beyond repair which included Sherlock's mattress, his standing lamp, John's kindle which had been left by the bed, the sheets, John's mug, two other random plates, the kettle, John's laptop, one of the Union Flag cushions, several books which had had their leaves torn free and Sherlock's non-internal skull, though he argued that John ought to be able to fix this.

John shrugged, feeling dejected and defeated and he flopped down on his chair. Sherlock carefully put the skull pieces away for later and sat opposite him. He looked at him expectantly. John sighed.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I literally don't know what I'm feeling right now. I'm annoyed. I'm really pissed off that she was here and that she upset Mrs Hudson. I'm basically pissed off.'

'Would it help you if we started looking at the bright side of things?' Sherlock asked. 'Mrs Hudson wasn't hurt, nor were you or I. The computer, your special mug, the mattress; it's all replaceable.'

John smiled at him. 'Yeah, I'm sorry. You are right. It could have been a lot worse, considering.'

'Yes.'

'What do you think she was looking for?' John asked again. 'Do you think she thinks we still have the memory stick or the computer code or something like that? How out of the loop was she when all of that happened?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't think she was looking for anything at all, though I admit it's possible she's left something here, and I'll have a thorough look for that later.' He gestured around the room. 'Look at where she went and in what order and what she did. Think of the things that haven't been touched rather than those that were.' He stood to demonstrate her movements to John. 'She came in here, attacked the shelves and then broke my skull. She went through to our bedroom, and there she attacked my wardrobe and shelves, and then she became focussed. She slashed your side of the bed, your bedside table, came back to the kitchen and destroyed your mug, the kettle, then back through here, where she attacked various medical texts and your computer. She didn't touch my violin. Well, she touched it to move it, but she was careful. The mirror's fine, the TV is fine, my chair, most of my cushions, my teacups, my laptop.'

'Oh…' John said.

'She's getting very sloppy now. She let her emotion take over when she'd got herself into our flat. She never intended for Mrs Hudson to walk in on her, but she'd been surprised and angered.' He smiled at John. 'Well you know; you picked up the papers.'

'What papers?'

'The ones you picked up from under the table and shoved back into the black file.'

Realisation dawned. 'Oh God; she knows we've cracked her code.'

'She does, and she's livid. She's so angry she let herself get out of control here, wild and furious, and she was caught out. And the thing that's amusing me the most is that she's chosen to take all her fury out on you.'

John breathed out slowly. 'Wow. But wait a second – she left my whole bedroom alone.'

'Yes. And the implication there is pretty clear; she's left you a perfectly acceptable place to sleep.' There was a glint in Sherlock's eye as he looked back at John.

'But you think she might have left some sort of listening device here?'

'She tried before with the flowers. It's a logical conclusion.'

'Right.' John glanced around the room. 'So I'm guessing you don't much care that she might be hearing all of this?'

Sherlock grinned. 'No, I was just wondering if we could leave her something really interesting to listen to!'


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Sherlock's boredom started to itch quite quickly. John was vaguely aware of it as soon as the most recent code had been cracked. He watched, concerned, as Sherlock sent some energetic texts to Mycroft and then started pacing around the flat.

'I thought you were going to look for that bug,' John reminded him, feeling that they'd given Adler quite enough of a show.

'Ah, yes.' This occupied an hour of Sherlock standing on furniture and moving books around for the second time that day, and John watching him, vaguely fearful of the undamaged collarbone. Eventually he stood down. 'No, there's nothing.'

'Really?'

'Nothing. I was wrong.'

Sherlock said nothing more about this, but smiled quite happily at John. A short time later he was passing to go to the bathroom and dropped a small, folded piece of paper onto his lap. John unfolded it. Sherlock had written; 'Mic in the light fixture. No camera.'

John folded it and put it into his pocket. Sherlock came back in with a book, and he sat down and read it, pointedly. John waited. It took less than fifteen minutes for Sherlock to get bored and start prowling again. Any attempts to get him to discuss books, TV, Mrs Hudson, their mutual acquaintances, or even the possibilities of Adler's potential plot were shaken off.

Nor would he be persuaded to go for a walk around the park where John had hoped that he might at least talk freely. John found himself glaring at the light throughout the evening. In the end he muttered that he was going to bed.

He was not woken up by any mumbled words.

He lay on the too-soft mattress staring up at the ceiling until he decided he'd spent enough time feeling sorry for himself, and he pushed himself up and out of bed. Sherlock was sitting at the table in the living room in exactly the same position that he'd left him in when he went to bed.

'Marco,' John said, but his heart wasn't really in it.

'Mrs Hudson made us some tea,' Sherlock said. He nodded towards the remaining half full cup on the table.

'Great, thanks.' John drank it anyway. It was only just tepid by now. 'Anything to do today?'

'I'm resting, remember?'

He turned around and handed John his phone. John looked at it to find a three way text conversation between Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade from early that morning.

_GL – Break in at Acorns. U might want 2 check Mrs H safe._

_SH – Items stolen from Sean Jeffries?_

_GL – Yes. Toys. Teddy bears._

_GL - ?_

_MH – Sean Jeffries. Son of Foreign Secretary._

_GL - ?_

_SH – IA plan moving forward at speed._

_MH – Evacuation scheduled._

_GL - ?_

John stared at the phone, feeling as confused as Lestrade. Sherlock was ignoring him now, and reading the paper with intense concentration.

'Right, good,' John said. 'I'm going for a run then.'

'Good.'

John turned smartly and went to change. He spent longer than was strictly necessary jogging around the paths in Regent's Park. He completed two circuits and was contemplating a third lap but realised he wasn't getting any less angry. He was just angry with an extra serving of tired. He jogged home.

He had a curious sensation as he stepped back into the house, and he looked up the stairs, wondering what he might find at the top of them.

There was just Sherlock though, sitting at the table with the newspaper in front of him. He didn't even look up when John came in. The tell tale twitching of his fingers against the table, and his eyes glancing across the page gave away the fact that he was safe and well. John, therefore, ignored him right back and walked off for a shower.

'You know,' Sherlock called softly after him, 'I'm beginning to think I'd like to see Irene again.' John turned around. 'It's been hard not to think about her in recent days. I've been…' he smiled at the floor. 'My mind has strayed to her often. I just thought I should let you know. It seems fair.'

'Yeah, well…' John started but his voice trailed off. 'Yeah, well, I think I'd sort of understand that. I wouldn't like it, but I think I'd understand.' He went into the shower to see if he could wash away some of his hurt and frustration.

He dressed in Sherlock's room and went back through to the living room. Sherlock was still motionless at the table, though his eyes flickered in John's direction as he came in. It was only for a second though, and John allowed himself a moment to seethe. He picked up the remnants of the kettle. It seemed fairly sound still, but when it had been thrown at the wall the lid had sprung free from its hinge. He started trying to force the hinge back together.

Sherlock sighed loudly and started scraping away at his violin. John, was not impressed.

The niggle of concern he was feeling began to bubble in his veins, and he allowed himself the luxury of actually letting the thoughts in. He knew he was being irrational, but he was also aware that Irene Adler had a habit of getting what she wanted, was far smarter than he was, and she wasn't one to shirk from behaving quite immorally at time. Whereas he was stuck with being in love with Sherlock, and therefore he had to treat him with respect and recognise that if he wanted to be with her, then he'd have to step aside.

That thought rankled.

He thumped the top of the kettle and the lid finally snapped into position. He filled it with water only to find there was an invisible crack in the casing somewhere, and the water simply pooled onto the work surface. He cursed and dumped the whole kettle into the sink. He was just about calm enough to remember to turn the socket off and unplug it. He hunched his shoulders and gripped the counter, trying hard to keep a lid on his anger.

Eventually he let go and pulled a saucepan from the cupboard.

'I'm making a cup of tea,' he called to Sherlock. 'Do you want one?'

He turned and found Sherlock had quietly walked up behind him. He was holding a piece of paper on which he'd written the words 'Row with me.'

It took him a second to realise that Sherlock meant row as in argument, and not row as in boat, and when he'd managed that, his mind went conveniently blank. He pulled a 'what the hell?' face at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, and John glanced around the kitchen.

'Are you going to answer me?' he asked loudly. 'You know what? If I offer you a cup of tea, the very least you could do is answer me! It's not quaint or quirky to go silent, Sherlock; it's just bloody rude!'

'It's a cup of tea, John. It's not worthy of this level of energy.' Sherlock dropped the first paper to reveal one that read 'thank you.'

'Well it's not _just_ a cup of tea any more, is it!' John shouted. 'Not now your bloody girlfriend has wrecked the bloody kettle.'

'She's not my girlfriend,' Sherlock said quickly, and then winced. The look on his face nearly made John giggle, but he managed to hold it together.

'Well I'm beginning to have serious doubts about that,' John snapped. 'What with the teeth and cheekbones, and the bloody brains that are oh so sexy!'

'I can't help that you were born average at best! It's not my fault! If you'd just use your imagination just slightly, just a little bit, perhaps you could lift yourself above the mundane, mediocrity that you seem so satisfied with.' Sherlock revealed a piece of paper which read, 'I love your smile. It does something peculiar to my knees.'

John was nearly thrown of track again. He gave Sherlock a desperate look.

'Well perhaps I can't help my mediocrity!' he yelled. 'Perhaps I don't need this constant arrogance from you! It's patronising and… and… and stupid! You say you can't help any of this, but it seems to me that you manufactory half of it! Bloody Irene's after you, and that's why people are dying, and why Mrs Hudson got lamped. And sometimes I really don't know why you don't just sod off back to her! You're clearly dissatisfied with only-just-average me!' John panted, hoping that Sherlock didn't start to assess how much of this was true.

'God, John! Your quiet, normal, dull little brain sickens me sometimes!' Sherlock yelled. He dropped another piece of paper to reveal the words; 'Now storm out - don't go far.'

'Fine!' John screamed. 'Well if you really can't stand my dull little brain, I'll just take it elsewhere!' He charged past Sherlock and out of the kitchen door which he slammed loudly for good measure. As he stormed down the stairs, he found Mrs Hudson coming worriedly out of her flat.

'John! What's happening? All that noise!'

He put his finger to his lips and nipped around the bottom of the stairs to hug her.

'We're fine,' he whispered in her ear. 'Apparently I make him weak at the knees, but we have to do this now. Go into your flat and lock the door. Don't come out until one of us gets you.'

She nodded and retreated. John turned, resumed his angry face, and stormed out the front door. He turned left out of the front door and sulked his way past Speedy's, feeling guilty for ignoring the cheerfully called 'hello'. He paced quickly to the end of the road and around the corner, wondering how close he needed to stay. Given that Sherlock was still not entirely stable, he was already at the edge of his own comfort zone.

He crossed the road and was actually relieved when Mycroft's car purred into view and pulled in beside him. He got in.

'Ah, John,' Mycroft said, smiling.

John shifted uncomfortably. 'I assume you were listening.'

'I was listening as well.'

'Definitely a bug then?'

'Indeed. Your role was played perfectly, well done.' Mycroft handed a mobile phone to John. The BBC news channel was screening on it, showing a reporter standing outside the Houses of Parliament.

'We have now been told that the evacuation is complete,' a chirpy reporter said, 'and that the business of government will be going on as usual. The prime Minister and all the members of the cabinet are quite safe and accounted for. He will be giving a press conference at Downing Street that's scheduled for five o'clock.'

The channel went back to the studio.

'Thank you, Kirsty,' the anchor there said. 'Can you give us any detail on what the nature of the threat was?'

'Not at this time. The police and the security services are working together now.'

John looked up. 'She was going to blow up parliament?' he said, slightly impressed.

'Blow up? Probably not. The intention seems to have been to get as many people into the individual offices as possible, and to assassinate MPs with a personal touch. We wondered whether she'd be there personally, but I think the prospect of time with Sherlock will be far too alluring for her.'

'Oh.'

'She wants to strike a blow at the heart of government, John.'

'Yeah, government, right.' He chewed on his lip until he remembered himself. 'But you've got everyone out. Couldn't you just have sent more police or army in or something?'

'We thought she'd appreciate something a little more showy. She knows we have her messages, and this drives the point home hard. We want her angry.'

'According to Sherlock, she's pretty much boiling over now.'

'Yes.'

John frowned. 'Wait a second; you two cooked all this up together to get her to charge Baker Street, didn't you?' He reached for the door handle.

'Wait, John,' Mycroft said soothingly. 'Don't worry about Sherlock; I have people in the vicinity. He indicated that he'd like to do this personally though.'

John relented. He was tense and uncomfortable though.

Mycroft turned the BBC stream off, and switched the phone to an audio receiver. John could hear Sherlock pacing the flat. They listened for a while, and John was just getting to the point of suggesting that Adler wasn't going to show up when he heard the click, click of high heels on a wooden floor.

'Mr Holmes,' she purred.

'You!' Sherlock responded.

John was intensely aware of Mycroft watching him, and he sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees so he could concentrate properly. He closed his eyes.

'Were you expecting someone else?' Adler asked. 'Hm? Someone smallish perhaps, and with sandy blonde hair.' She sighed. 'I can't see it myself, though I am told some people like that rugged, used quality.' There was a pause and more clicking of heels. 'It surprised me from you though. I know what people like, Mr Holmes, and I think you like refinement. Something exotic. Something rare and beautiful.'

In his mind, John saw Sherlock reacting a thousand different ways to this. He didn't like some of the looks that might be on Sherlock's face.

'What was he?' Adler asked. 'A pity shag?'

'I'm not sure you'd recognise it,' Sherlock answered.

Adler laughed. 'Oh, I've been around, Mr Holmes. I've seen people act in all sorts of interesting ways when they think that they're in love.'

John sat up. 'Do we have to listen to this for much longer? We know where she is, and we want to arrest her. Why are we waiting?'

'You're not my prisoner, John. You can leave any time you like.'

'Why don't we go away together, Mr Holmes?' Adler asked. 'Oh, that's so fussy, isn't it? Can I call you Sherlock? God knows I can't call you the virgin anymore.'

There was a pause before she spoke again. 'We could go somewhere hot maybe. Just me and you.'

'What are you doing here, Irene?' Sherlock asked. 'You told John you were gay.'

'It fascinates you, doesn't it?' She answered. 'Attraction. How it happens, when it happens. Why is person A, attracted to person B when factors X, Y and Z are in play. Why do I want you? Why do you want John? Why does John want you?' There was a pause, and John could imagine her slow, careful smile. 'Why do you want me?'

Sherlock didn't answer this. John realised his heart was in his throat.

'It baffles you, doesn't it?' Adler asked. 'I can help you with that, if you like, Sherlock. I can teach you.' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'I know all the rules.'

'You know what?' John said. 'Enough of this. I'm going back.'

'By all means,' Mycroft started by John waved to quieten him.

'Come with me, _Sherlock_,' Adler said. There was the sound of a gun cocking.

John swore and leapt out of the car, darting across the road and running full pelt all the way home. He burst through the front door and stopped himself, trying to breathe calmly so that he could listen. There was silence from upstairs, and he cursed himself for not grabbing the phone so that he could hear what was going on in the flat. Mrs Hudson's door was still shut, but he'd told her to stay inside, and she wouldn't disobey even if she heard a gunshot.

His browning was two floors up, still in his old room, and he wondered if he could get all the way up there without disturbing Adler into any unfortunate action.

He toed off his shoes and walked quickly and silently up the stairs. He couldn't see either Sherlock or Adler when he got to the landing, she he darted to stand between the kitchen and living room doors.

'I will kill you, you know,' Adler said.

'I don't doubt it.'

'Then I suggest you get up and come with me. I know a little place by a quiet lake in the South of Italy. I think that maybe you and I should go there together. Get to know each other better.'

'Personally I think I know quite enough about you.'

She gave a short laugh. John risked a furtive look through the door. He could see from the shadows on the floor that Adler was stood by Sherlock's armchair. Sherlock, he assumed, was in it.

'You're boring me now,' Adler said. 'Get up and come with me. Big brother might have spoiled all of my nice plans, but I can still get away with you.'

'Unfortunately I can't,' Sherlock answered.

'Can't?'

'You may have heard that I've been having difficulties with this nice, _sexy_ brain of mine. I've experienced several seizures of a variety of types. I'm assuming I'm experiencing something now, because I can't feel or move my legs.'

'What?'

John saw Adler's shadow lower her gun, and he took his chance. He was in the room behind her with her gun hand in his own before she could even register him. She struggled but he had all the advantage. He squeezed her hand and shot the ready loaded bullet into the table, and then he wrenched the whole gun from her grasp, tossing it into Sherlock's lap. She tried to use a judo throw on him, but he identified and blocked it. He swept her legs out from under her with his foot and forced her to the ground. He twisted her arms up behind her and kept her down with a knee placed at the top of her back. Her cheek was forced into the carpet and she snarled.

'Steady, John,' Sherlock said. 'She is a… well she's certainly female anyhow.'

'Oh I'm all about equal ops,' John replied. 'I'll treat all murderers exactly the same way.'

'You know nothing, Doctor Watson,' Adler whimpered. 'I could show you things though.'

'Oh, do shut up.'

Sherlock stood and stretched. He dropped the gun onto the table and picked up his phone.

'Your legs!' John said.

'They're fine now,' Sherlock said. He rubbed his finger over the new bullet hole in the table and nodded appreciatively. 'I'd better call for reinforcements. Oh, they're here.'


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Mycroft came in leading a couple of men who seemed to have been chosen for their careers entirely on their muscle mass and ability to look completely generic. They bore down on John, and he released Adler to them. Her arms were bound with strong white plastic cords, and she was lifted to her feet.

She looked at Sherlock, clearly torn between her natural instinct of trying to charm her way out of trouble, and sheer fury. She ended up not saying anything at all as she was led from the room.

'Woo,' John said. He dropped down into his armchair. 'Well it's been a fun day.' He looked at Mycroft. 'I'm not going to offer you a cup of tea.'

'Ah, that reminds me, I have a new kettle for you in my car. I'll send my driver up with it shortly.'

'Oh.' John said. 'I think I might be dating the wrong Holmes brother.' The look of sudden upset on Sherlock's face made him giggle like a child.

'Is he quite well?' Mycroft asked Sherlock.

'Oh, yes. He sometimes does this when he's experience a sudden drop in stress.'

John giggled some more.

'You'd better go and check on your men,' Sherlock said to Mycroft. 'She'll be working on them already.'

'I've taken precautions there,' Mycroft replied. 'Max and Seamus are a couple.' John broke down with peals of laughter again. 'Good afternoon, gentlemen,' Mycroft said, looking at John as if he might have something dreadful and contagious. He left them alone.

'Oh dear,' John said, wiping his eyes. 'All right then, are you going to tell me all the bits that I haven't worked out yet?'

'Well I don't want to patronise you…' Sherlock said, looking hurt.

'You told me to row with you! I went for the most obvious of all your many flaws, that's all.'

Sherlock smiled at him. 'Was any of it based on reality?'

'No,' John said, shaking his head emphatically. 'All of it was absolutely, one hundred per cent made up. I have no idea why those thoughts popped so readily into my head. Was the legs thing a total lie?'

'Couldn't have been more of a lie.' Sherlock came to sit on his armchair opposite John. 'I'm feeling fine. So, how much do you know?'

'Irene Adler had a plot to kill lots of politicians. I mean an actual plot, rather than the random daydreams that I have about some of them.'

Sherlock's mouth curled into a smile. 'She did. It was a hastily thrown together thing though. Remember Sean Jeffries?'

'The Foreign Secretary's son?'

'The same. Being a senior member of the cabinet, he has been entrusted with a key which unlocks a passage that runs from beneath the cellars Houses of Parliament along to the banks of the Thames just under Waterloo bridge. It was built when the buildings were new as they knew even then they realised that occasionally senior politicians might need to evacuate in secret and at short notice. The senior cabinet members are all given with a key so that they can get out if they need to.'

'Are these the same passages that Guy Fawkes used?'

'Yes. And despite that incident, the various black-suited idiots think they should keep them for occasional use.'

'So wait a second, are you telling me that our Foreign secretary was given a key for this passage which he then handed on to his son?'

'Yes. He sewed it into the foot of one of his favourite teddy bears. Apparently he got the idea from a children's film he watched with the boy.'

John was incredulous. 'Is our Foreign Secretary completely stupid or something?'

'You heard his speech last month on Afghanistan.'

'Well yes. Granted.'

A man appeared at the door. 'I was asked to bring you this.' He was holding a box with a brand new kettle in it.

'Oh, now you're talking!' John leapt up to take it from him. The man nodded smartly and left. 'That reminds me,' he called to Sherlock, 'Mrs Hudson's under strict instructions not to leave her flat until we get her. Can you pop down while I sort this out.' He took the kettle to the kitchen table and started unpacking it, eagerly.

'You know, considering the amount of kettles we go through in a year, the amount you enjoy every new one is always a wonder.'

'Mrs Hudson,' John replied.

They were sitting down again with fresh cups of hot tea and the rest of the Victoria sponge donated by a relieved Mrs Hudson when Sherlock went on as if the conversation hadn't been broken at all.

'I think Mycroft will be having a stern word with him shortly.'

'I'm sorry, what now?'

'Our ridiculous Foreign Secretary who thought the point of an emergency key was to sew it into the foot of his son's favourite bear.'

'Oh, him. I'd forgotten.' He helped himself to more cake.

'Miss Adler's role was initially quite simple. She joined what's left of Moriarty's network to keep an eye on me. If she was able to somehow torture or destroy me, then that was well and good. Unfortunately, she got a bit obsessed. The bomb in the shopping centre was considered a success. People noticed, people were put on edge. I was put out of action temporarily, you were concerned. All their boxes got ticked. The attack on you was also considered a worthy event, however unplanned it was. Unfortunately, Miss Adler then attacked the garden centre worker which was considered messy and inefficient and a waste of her time. Some of the messages sent to her that day were quiet unflattering. She attempted to make amends by planting a bug here at Baker Street, but that plan went awry. She couldn't communicate with the others via their message board any more, and needed to alert them to their danger, at which point she'd reveal she was here and caught. She tried instead to push the plan forwards by returning to the Acorns and stealing the bear where she was fairly sure Mr Jeffries had hidden his escape key.'

'Because he's a buffoon.'

'Indeed.'

Sherlock went quiet again. His finger stroked along his lip as he looked at John.

'What?' John asked eventually.

'Hm? Oh, I was just reflecting that you were right.'

'Really?' John raised his eyebrows. 'About what, precisely? Because I'm still not completely clear on whether Moriarty is dead or not.'

Sherlock guffawed. 'Oh he most definitely is. You were right about Alder. She was different. I did choose to save her. To let her go.'

'Oh, right. Why did you?' he asked, fearing the answer.

'She impressed me.' He sat back and seemed satisfied with the nostalgia. 'She was very clever, John, and in ways that I still don't fully understand.'

'Yeah,' John said.

Sherlock's eyes darted up to him instantly. 'But I didn't want to have sex with her. She impressed me; she didn't attract me. In my mind the distinction is clear.'

'Yes,' John said, squirming slightly. 'The problem is that the person who I want to sleep with impresses me as well.'

'But the one impression doesn't lead to the attraction.'

'Actually, it does a bit. I admire you. I am impressed by you constantly.'

'But you were for years before you wanted to sleep with me.'

'I suppose that's true.' He looked across at Sherlock who was still regarding him, stroking his lips. 'So come on then. Do I impress you even a little bit?'

Sherlock smiled. 'Is this one of those times when I should list everything about you that I love?'

John smiled. 'Yes. I know it's pathetic, but yes, actually, you should.'

The smile turned into a grin. 'Well, there's the soldier thing, that's always good. And that thing where you get cross so very quickly. And there's he thing how you always know what to say to people. And your arse, obviously.'

'My arse impresses you?'

'Oh yes. Your arse is deeply impressive. I think I need to start a sub-list; things that impress me about your arse.' He slid to his knees and walked his hands up John's thighs. 'The sub-list might be quite long. I perhaps better make sure you're nice and comfortable…

* * *

**There we go! I hope that some of you enjoyed this.**

**I think this is probably going to be my lot with writing now. Thanks all for your input and support.**

**Pip xxx**


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